


Miraculously Roommates

by chloeburgis



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6552016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chloeburgis/pseuds/chloeburgis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Marinette wanted was a roommate to help her pay the bills. Now she’s somehow helping her childhood crush Adrien Agreste raise a long-lost baby sister, all while fending off jealous fans and rumors that the kid’s their secret love child. It was supposed to be a solution to her money problems. At this rate, Marinette’s gonna need something miraculous to get out of this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M DOING THIS.
> 
> This is all [miraculous-mask](http://miraculous-mask.tumblr.com/)'s fault. 
> 
> Anyway! So, welcome to _Miraculously Roommates_ , which was conceived after binge-watching the show and then my brain going, "Hm, but what if...?" Bad things happen when my brain does that.
> 
> Important things to keep in mind! First, this is a **non-powered, non-magical AU**. Which means, the miraculouses, kwamis, and akumas don't exist. _But_ Tikki and Plagg will be here! How, you ask? Read to find out!
> 
> Second, neither I nor my beta are French. We've done research into the geography of Paris, how to commute there, daily French life and routines, typical food, what the schools and culture are like, etc. but there's only so much Google can do for us. If you're French and/or have spotted something that needs to be corrected, by all means leave a comment or message me! I'd love nothing more than my fics to be as accurate as they can be.
> 
> Speaking of betas, I'd like to thank the lovely [Dawn](http://askdawncloud700.tumblr.com/) for correcting my grammar, suggesting new turns of phrases, and just generally holding my hand through my first Miraculous fic experience.
> 
> Onward, mes amis!

“I think I need another job.”

Marinette slumped over the kitchen table in her unbearably tiny ( _cozy,_ her subconscious corrected, which she responded to with the patented Alya Césaire Eyeroll – no one in their right mind would call her dinky little one-bedroom cozy) breakfast nook, resisting the urge to crumple up the bill she held in her hand and throw it in the trash. It was only one of the veritable barrage that had arrived in the mail, each reminding her that her payments were late. Again.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “I love working for Maman and Papa. But the pay’s not spectacular. And now it’s either find a second source of income or sell a kidney on the Internet at this point.”

Alya stood at the stove, scraping tomatoes into a mixture of egg, cheese, and just a dollop of milk. She’d spent the past week at Marinette’s, since most of her things were packed away in preparation for moving in with her long-time boyfriend, Nino. In exchange for the pull-out under Marinette’s bed, Alya had agreed to buy groceries and make breakfast. Alya liked American breakfasts and she’d sold Marinette on the idea.

“Could you take on a few more shifts at the bakery?”

“Not without dropping a few classes,” Marinette sighed. “And my scholarship requires me to have a full load.”

“Maybe you could ask your parents for a raise?” Alya suggested, expertly flipping the omelettes in the frying pan.

“I couldn’t do that,” Marinette replied. Just because her parents owned the bakery didn’t mean she was entitled to a higher salary. She’d always felt that she made just enough, but since moving out, it had taken some pretty creative thinking to make her money stretch. “Then they’d know I’m having a hard time, and they’d insist I move back in.”

Alya brought over the omelettes, along with a pot of coffee. She waited until Marinette swept the bills aside, then set their breakfast on the table. “Well, why don’t you?” she asked, sliding into the opposite seat. “Your parents would love to have you back.”

“But I like having my own place!” Marinette exclaimed. She looked around at her apartment – cramped, dark, and overpriced, yes, but entirely hers. She valued having her own space, somewhere to call hers. It was why, as a child, she’d insisted on the attic being hers. It felt far away from the hustle and bustle of the bakery, a private bubble she could retreat to when the world became too much. “It’s hard and I hate budgeting, but I really do like being independent. But if I can’t find a better-paying job, I won’t be for long,” she added sullenly, eyes flickering downward in disappointment.

Alya tapped a teaspoon against her coffee cup, eyebrows knitted together. “Have you considered a roommate?”

Marinette blinked. “A roommate?”

Alya got that look on her face that told Marinette she was resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Her best friend was nice like that. “Yeah, you know, someone to split the bills with,” she explained. “It’s partly why Nino and I decided to move in together. I’m practically at his place all the time anyway, and it’ll be easier on our bank accounts.”

“Who’d want to live here?” Marinette asked, sweeping her arm in a wide arc to indicate the apartment. It was a little one-bedroom with no windows, and only a ragged screen dividing the outer room into a living room and kitchen. She loved it, this tiny space in the city devoted to her, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. However, she was honest enough to admit that it wasn’t exactly prime Paris real estate.

“Maybe someone from your class?” Alya suggested.

Marinette shook her head. “You’ve seen the mess one design student makes,” she said dryly. “I don’t think this apartment can handle two.” After sitting her _le bac_ , Marinette had received a scholarship to ESMOD Paris, where she’d enrolled in the fashion design undergraduate program. It was her dream come true, but a nightmare for her mother, who was always calling to remind Marinette to clean up the papers, fabrics, pencils, safety pins, and magazines that were perpetually scattered around her apartment.

“I don’t suppose you and Nino have room for me,” Marinette added glumly.

Alya snickered. “I think Nino would kill me if I suggested it,” she replied. But at the deep sigh Marinette released in response, she added, just a bit worriedly, “I’m kidding! Nino would love to have you with us. And even if he doesn’t,” she continued, “ _I’d_ love to have you with us.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Marinette, waving a hand. “I wouldn’t do that to you and Nino. You guys deserve to have your love nest without having to worry about me.”

“But are you sure? I mean, if you really need a place to stay – ”

“Alya, come on! What kind of best friend would I be if did something that selfish? Don’t worry about me,” Marinette reassured Alya, gently petting her hand. “I’ll figure something out. It’ll be okay.”

“All right,” said Alya, doubt lingering in her voice. “I’ll keep an ear out for anyone who might need a roommate.”

“I’d really appreciate it.”

“You could move into my old place,” Alya suggested. “After I move into Nino’s, I mean.”

“There’s an idea,” Marinette replied, nodding. “Although your apartment’s even smaller than this,” she added, wrinkling her nose.

“What about if someone else needed a roommate?” Alya ventured, gesturing with a fork. “It might be easier to look up someone else in a situation like this, rather than someone just looking for a room. Would you be willing to move out?”

Marinette shrugged. “I guess? But their place would have to be nicer than mine!” she added with a giggle. She glanced once more at her apartment, the secondhand furniture, and the clutter that had accumulated over nearly a year of living there. “Much, _much_ nicer.”

 

* * *

 

“But Père,” Adrien protested, “you said I could – ”

“I said no such thing,” M. Agreste said dismissively. He waved a hand, indicating the maid could take away his breakfast. The girl rushed forward to clear the table, deftly taking away the empty plate and utensils and replacing it with a steaming cup of tea. “I said I would _consider_ it. And I have. The answer is no.”

Adrien clenched his fist around his fork. He knew his relationship with his father now was by and far a large improvement from his childhood, when he felt like a prize-winning dog being displayed at a show. But Gabriel Agreste had turned his obsessive need for his son to be perfect into an equally obsessive need to ensure that he was protected from – well – _everything_.

Even enrolling in university had been nothing short of a battle. Adrien had won that fight, but only because his father had decided that becoming a concert pianist was a career path worthy of an Agreste. At the time, Adrien had asked if, like his classmates, he could live in a dormitory or a student apartment. The look of disdain that had flashed across his father’s features was familiar, but his reply of, “After your first year, I shall consider it,” was not.

Like a fool, Adrien had taken M. Agreste’s answer to mean that he had a chance. His father, however, had very quickly dashed those hopes.

Something in Adrien rebelled at the notion. “Père, with all due respect,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’ve been nothing but an exemplary student, no? I’ve never missed a photo shoot and I’ve kept up with my fencing. Nothing will change if I live on my own, I promise.”

“ _Monsieur_ ,” a voice spoke up, soft but firm, “if I may be frank?”

Adrien looked up at his father’s assistant – not Nathalie, she’d been promoted to management in his father’s company some time ago. Her name was Camille, and she was a petite blonde with big blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a gentle smile. Adrien pessimistically wondered how long it would be before his father stomped out that warmth.

“Yes, Camille?” M. Agreste said frostily, in a tone of voice that was known to make interns cry.

To her credit, Camille’s smile never wavered. “It’s been said that a certain amount of independence is beneficial to young people’s intellectual growth and maturity,” she said lightly. “Perhaps allowing Adrien to live on his own would teach him skills necessary in adult life?”

Adrien gaped at Camille. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Maybe Camille’s spirit wouldn’t be so easily crushed after all. As M. Agreste turned back to his son, Camille glanced at Adrien over his father’s head and winked.

M. Agreste raised an eyebrow. “I hardly believe there is anything out there that could teach Adrien something he could not learn in here,” he said condescendingly.

“Oh, but Père, there are _so_ many things I must learn how to do,” exclaimed Adrien. He could sense his father weakening. His response to Camille was merely a token show of disagreement. The moment his assistant had pointed out that there was an aspect of Adrien’s upbringing and education that could be improved upon, Adrien knew his father would eventually relent. It was the same with Nathalie, when she’d innocently suggested that keeping Adrien from going to school with peers and making friends would have deleterious effects upon Adrien’s mental health. “I need to – learn how to balance a checkbook! And cook. I don’t know how to plan a budget. I can’t sew.”

“It would be most unseemly, _monsieur_ ,” said Camille gravely, not a trace of laughter in her face, “if the future CEO of your empire could not sew.”

“He could learn how to sew here,” M. Agreste grumped.

“I need to learn how to take care of myself,” Adrien insisted. “I understand your concerns. But you know I wouldn’t be the best I can be if I didn’t at least  _try_ to be independent.”

M. Agreste steepled his fingers together and eyed Adrien over the tops of his glasses. Under the table, Adrien crossed his fingers. If there was one thing guaranteed to make his father agree to something, it was the threat of his son not being perfect. This manipulation had gotten Adrien what he wanted a few times in his life, but he desperately needed it to work now. He wanted out of this grand, ostentatious mansion, where he felt so isolated from the world, unable to relate to any of his friends.

After an impossibly long silence, M. Agreste leaned back, sighed deeply, and said, “Very well, I will allow you to move into your own apartment. _But_ ,” he added sharply, forestalling Adrien’s celebration, “I have two conditions.”

Adrien grinned and nodded. “Anything, Père,” he said, almost vibrating in his seat with happiness.

“I will choose the apartment.”

“Of course.”

“And I absolutely insist that you won’t be by yourself. I won’t do you the indignity of having one of our staff move in with you,” M. Agreste added quickly, just as Adrien opened his mouth to protest, “but I require you have a roommate. Someone I trust to look out for you. If you’ve chosen a roommate, you will introduce this person to me and if I approve, then you may move out.”

Adrien nodded. It was more than he’d hoped for. “Yes, Père, thank you,” he said, just barely resisting the urge to get up and hug his father. M. Agreste was often scandalized by such open displays of affection.

 

* * *

 

Moving day for Alya and Nino was a huge production, thanks to all their friends who wanted to help out. There was Kim, who couldn’t resist challenging everyone in hearing distance to a contest of who could lift the most boxes (“Some things never change,” Alya muttered in Marinette’s ear), Ivan and Mylène, still together after all these years, and Max, who offered the services of his truck so Alya wouldn’t have to rent a moving van. _Naturellement_ , Adrien and Marinette were also there, although Alya had relegated Marinette to cleaning duties after she’d broken a plate for the fifth time.

Getting Alya’s belongings safely from her old apartment to the new, bigger place she and Nino would now share was the fun part. Everything else was tiring, sweaty work. They spent the rest of the day helping the happy couple unpack, and there were more than a few squabbles about where a rug would go or in what drawer would the cutlery be placed. However, they managed to finish up soon enough, and Nino opened a few bottles of red wine to thank everyone. The group began to disperse, exchanging “you’re welcomes” and “my pleasures” as they left. Finally, only Alya, Nino, Marinette, and Adrien were left, finishing off the last of the wine.

“Alya, I love you, but I am _never_ doing that again,” Marinette groaned, collapsing on the couch in a dejected heap. “Five plates, a mug, and a vase. That’s a new record.”

Alya laughed. “I didn’t like the vase anyway,” she said teasingly. “It was horribly ugly.”

Nino slung an arm around her shoulder and tapped her on the nose. “That was a gift from my sister,” he said dryly.

“Exactly.”

Nino rolled his eyes. Marinette suppressed the urge to laugh. He looked frighteningly like Alya when he did that, although she supposed that they’d been together so long, it was only to be expected.

“Do we get dinner?” Adrien asked, grinning mischievously. He was perched gracefully on the edge of the couch next to Marinette, idly twirling his wine glass.

“How does pizza sound?” Alya asked.

“ _Parfait_ ,” Adrien replied, in such a good imitation of his father, the feared Gabriel Agreste, that everyone dissolved into laughter.

“I’ll go order the pizza,” said Alya as she whipped out her reliable cell phone and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’ll set the table,” Nino added, following her.

Which, of course, left Marinette alone with Adrien.

He was still as handsome as the day they’d first met, although the soft, childish fifteen-year-old features had given way to a chiseled jawline and cheekbones _Vogue_ and _Harper’s Bazaar_ waxed poetic about. His eyes hadn’t changed though, Marinette mused. She was prone to thinking about Adrien’s eyes in ridiculously sappy metaphors – the phrase ‘the green of the leaves in spring’ had appeared in her diary quite a few times.

She, along with the rest of their school, had nursed an unbearably embarrassing crush on Adrien, but Marinette prided herself on liking him for deeper reasons than his looks. (Although he certainly was easy on the eyes, but that wasn’t the point.) When they’d first met, she’d actually detested him, thinking him nothing more than one of Chloé Bourgeois’s simpering minions. Then she’d been treated to another side of him, a genuinely nice guy who’d simply had the misfortune to grow up with a spoiled brat like Chloé. Since that afternoon under his umbrella, when their hands had touched, she was smitten.

Through the good offices of Alya Césaire, the best Mom Friend ever, Marinette had learned not to blush, stutter, and fumble every time she so much as looked in Adrien’s direction. After she’d more or less managed to get herself under control (although Alya would call it ‘making your enormous crush on him less painfully obvious’) she and Adrien had become good friends. Over time, her crush had faded into a fond and just slightly cringe-worthy memory, brought up during nights out with Alya when they were both just this side of tipsy.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Adrien asked, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a little jealous.” He gestured around with his glass. Marinette worried about the inch or two of wine still in it. Alya was rather fond of the rug in the living room (although, to be honest, it was far more likely that _she_ would spill something, rather than Adrien). “It’s a really nice apartment.”

“Your bathroom is bigger than the whole place,” said Marinette disbelievingly.

“It’s not that,” Adrien replied, brow furrowing in thought. “It’s that it’s _theirs_ , you know? It’s like – ” He trailed off, unable to articulate his meaning.

“Like a space of your own?” Marinette finished. A frisson of warmth ran through her. This was why she and Adrien just worked together, why their friendship had become such an important part of Marinette’s life. It was like they operated on the same wavelength, like their minds were so closely attuned that they could almost finish each other’s sentences, unspoken meanings understood in the space of a heartbeat. “Somewhere in this world that’s just for you?”

“Yes, exactly!” Adrien exclaimed, pointing his glass at Marinette. “You get it, you really do.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’ve wanted to move out for so long, but Père just doesn’t understand.”

Marinette tutted sympathetically. “He won’t let you get your own place?”

Adrien suddenly brightened. “Actually,” he said, “he said he’d let me move out, but…” He trailed off, looking speculatively at Marinette.

“But what?” Marinette asked timidly. She’d met M. Agreste a handful of times over the years, and even the mere mention of him never failed to make her nervous.

“Pizza will be here in a bit!” Alya declared, bounding into the living room with the enthusiasm of someone about to partake in greasy junk food. “We’re eating in the kitchen though, no way am I letting you guys mess up my living room.” She paused, taking in the way Adrien was regarding Marinette. “Did I interrupt something?” she asked, just a hint of slyness creeping into her tone. She had never really given up captaining the _S.S. Adrienette_ , no matter how much Marinette protested that they were just friends now, thanks very much.

“No, no,” said Adrien, not taking his eyes off Marinette. “Not at all. I was just thinking of – ”

But whatever it was he was thinking off was cut off by a loud screech from their gracious hostess as the wine glass finally tumbled out of Adrien’s grasp and spilled its contents all over the white shag rug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> _Le bac_ \- Also known as the baccalauréat, this is a qualifying exam French students must take in order to move on to university; I'm told it's similar to the SATs in the States
> 
> ESMOD Paris - The _École supérieure des arts et techniques de la mode_ , a private fashion school in Paris
> 
>  _Naturellement_ \- Naturally
> 
>  _Parfait_ \- Perfect


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I'm so overwhelmed by how well this story has been received. I hope you stick around for more!
> 
> I forgot to mention this in the first chapter, but I'm on Tumblr! Check me out at [burgischloe](http://burgischloe.tumblr.com). I'm friendly and follow back!
> 
> As always, thank you to my darling beta [Dawn](http://askdawncloud700.tumblr.com). Hope you're doing fine, bb. You know you can always talk to me if you need anything. <3
> 
> Onward to chapitre deux!

Cafe de Flore is nothing short of a uniquely Parisian landmark, with it’s elegant interiors and outrageously priced dishes, as much a tourist trap as the Eiffel Tower. It only made sense that it was Chloé Bourgeois’s favorite place to see and be seen.

Adrien wove his way through the tables on the sidewalk and spotted Chloé at her usual table. She was wearing white slacks and her signature yellow cardigan, her face half-hidden by a large pair of sunglasses and a floppy-brimmed hat. Despite the attempt at disguise, the diners recognized her and whispered amongst themselves, “That’s Chloé Bourgeois, you know, she owns Le Grand Paris? Tyra Banks called her the most stylish girl in France,” followed by, “Isn’t that the model Adrien Agreste? Are they _dating?_ ”

It had come as a surprise to everyone – Adrien included – when he and Chloé actually became friends and starting hanging out for real, rather than simply being forced to spend time in each other’s company as a result of their fathers running in the same circles. They’d even bonded over their mutual loathing of the formal occasions they were dragged to. Chloé enjoyed the fine gowns and being admired, but after the initial crush of photographers followed hours of tedium, dancing with the same fawning boys who couldn’t talk their way out a paper bag. As for Adrien, there was nothing about these charity balls, fashion shows, parties, or galas that he liked. Especially not the penguin suits he was forced to wear.

Marinette, Alya, and Nino were frankly baffled by the friendship. But while Adrien loved them, would always love them for being totally unfazed by his celebrity status, there was a part of his life that they didn’t understand, but which Chloé did. And, if Adrien was being honest, they were being a little prejudiced. Chloé had matured some since their days in _collège_ , when she’d been nothing but an insufferable spoiled brat. She still had the same grand and imperious manner, but tinged with just enough charisma that people now actually liked her.

“ _Bonjour, mon cher_ ,” said Chloé. Adrien stooped down to kiss her proffered cheek, then took the seat across from her. “I took the liberty of ordering,” Chloé continued, indicating the two tiny cups of espresso on the table.

“ _Merci_ ,” Adrien replied, taking his cup and sipping delicately from it. It was distinctly un-French of him, but he liked his coffee milky and sweet. It was a preference that scandalized Chloé, so he refrained from partaking in it when in her presence to spare her sensibilities.

They sipped their coffee and made idle chit-chat, the way Chloé always did before getting to whatever it was she really wanted to talk about. She asked about his latest photoshoot, an ad campaign for a perfume line with an ‘urban gangster’ theme, which his father had vehemently opposed before being subtly prodded in the other direction by Camille. In return, Adrien politely inquired after her father, the former mayor André Bourgeois.

Chloé scoffed. “Last I heard, he was in Milan with some  _other_ supermodel half his age,” she said. “Some German _salope_ with appalling taste in shoes.”

Adrien fumbled for something to say, and settled for, “It’s nice in Milan this time of year.”

Chloé raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, an unspoken, “Really? You’re going to talk about the weather?” But it couldn’t be helped. The subject of Chloé’s father was an awkward one; but she never minced matters when it came to him. Discovering that her father had long been keeping a string of mistresses all over Europe would have been hard on any daughter, but it took a great toll on Chloé, who positively adored André Bourgeois. Chloé had thought André devoted to the memory of her mother, Lucile, and to find out otherwise had destroyed their relationship.

Nowadays, André Bourgeois spent his retirement sojourning around the Continent, only phoning Chloé a few times a month to check on how she and the hotel were doing. He appeared in magazines and gossip websites much more frequently, often with a much younger woman on his arm.

“Oh, forget all that. I didn’t ask you out for coffee to talk about our subpar fathers,” said Chloé, stirring a lump of sugar into her drink. “I wanted to ask you if there’s any truth to the rumours I’ve been hearing.”

“What rumours?” Adrien asked. “Because I’m not feuding with Justin Bieber, no matter what TMZ says. I’ve never even met him!”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Adrikins, it’s not attractive,” Chloé chided. “Are you or are you not moving in with a certain Marinette Dupain-Cheng?” She managed to make Marinette’s name sound like a disgusting swear word.

Adrien sighed deeply. Chloé’s network of tattlers and information-bearers could rival the media. “You make it sound so sordid.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

Adrien sighed again, but relented. “It seemed like a sign,” he said. “A solution falling right into my lap like that.” He quickly summed up his desire to live on his own, his father’s conditions, then helping Alya and Nino move into their new apartment, and learning of Marinette’s predicament.  

“Indeed,” said Chloé disdainfully. “Of course Marinette Dupain-Cheng would live in a dump,” she added, her nose wrinkling.

“Chloé.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Adrikins, Even _she_ thinks it’s a dump, you said so yourself.”

“Don’t be so contrary.”

Chloé pressed her lips together and tittered gracefully, which told Adrien that she was holding back unladylike gales of laughter. “ _Contrary_ ,” she repeated. “Adrien, honey, you sound like my _grandmère_. Why don’t you just call me a bitch like everyone else does?”

“You’re not a…” Adrien trailed off. “Okay. Maybe you are. But I don’t like calling you a bitch.”

Chloé beamed at him. “You’re awfully sweet,” she said, petting his hand. “But anyway, back to your father’s highly questionable decision let you move in with Marinette.” She punctuated her sentence with a sneer that would have done Gabriel proud. “I can’t believe your father _approved_ of her. What is this world coming to?”

Adrien shrugged. “Père knows Marinette. She won that design contest back in school – ” He cut himself off, remembering that Chloé had cheated in that contest and lost anyway. She rolled her eyes and made a ‘well, go on’ gesture. “I figured it was kind of a long shot, to be honest.”

“I’ll say,” sniffed Chloé. “Honestly, Adrikins, if you needed a roommate, why didn’t you ask me?” She batted her eyelashes coyly at him.

They both laughed. At this point, her hitting on him was an old habit, not truly meant. An in-joke that left tongues wagging, which they both delighted in. “Come on, Chlo, I don’t think you’d ever leave your gorgeous penthouse at Le Grand Paris. Not even for me.”

Chloé pretended to think. “Hm, you’re right,” she said nonchalantly. “You’re cute, _mon cher_ , but not cute enough to pass up 24/7 room service and a butler.”

“You’re such a good friend.”

“I _know_.” Chloé stirred the dregs of her espresso, eyeing Adrien with an expression that, on anyone else, would be mild concern, but on Chloé was practically deep worry. Adrien felt flattered. “Listen, are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Of course. Marinette and I are good friends,” said Adrien, ignoring Chloé’s contemptuous snort, “and of all my friends, Père’s known her the longest. He hasn’t met any of my friends from the conservatory, and I think he’d have an aneurysm if I suggested Nino.” M. Agreste’s feelings towards Adrien’s best friend had not improved, at all. “Plus, Nino’s just moved in with Alya. I couldn’t ask them to take me in. Oh, you should see their place Chlo, it’s so nice!” he added enthusiastically.

“I’m sure,” said Chloé dryly. “I’m a little uneasy about this, _mon cher_ ,” she confessed. “You know how madly in love she was with you when we were all in school together. What if she tries something...drastic?”

Adrien rolled his eyes so hard he was sure they’d fall out of his skull. Alya really was a bad influence, he thought. “Everyone was ‘madly in love’ with me in school, Chloé,” he said. “Even you,” he added accusingly.

“Stop changing the subject.”

“Marinette wasn’t exactly the one getting up to crazy shenanigans to try to get my attention,” said Adrien archly, and was rewarded with Chloé’s brows knitting together and a flush creeping up her cheeks. “Remember Nino’s movie? And our day working at the hotel? And – ”

“All right, I get the point!” Chloé snapped. “You’re horrible,” she said accusingly.

“I learned from the best,” Adrien replied cheerfully, and waved over a waiter to order another cup of coffee.

 

* * *

 

Marinette’s lease was up by the end of the month, and the landlord was only too happy to let go of a tenant with a history of not paying rent punctually. But there was still a whole host of things to take care of before she moved in with Adrien. She had to pack up her belongings, pay the last of her utility bills, collect her deposit, and update her files at school to reflect her new address.

Thank goodness the furniture had come with the place. The ratty, moth-eaten pieces could stay here, where a new occupant could curse the stained couch or the threadbare mattress. Anyway, Marinette was sure they wouldn’t fit in with whatever apartment Gabriel Agreste deemed worthy of his perfect son.

Speaking of Gabriel Agreste – Marinette felt like she’d barely survived that fateful meeting with him. At first, she’d thought Adrien needing a roommate was the perfect solution to her money troubles. Miraculous, almost. Meeting Gabriel had almost been enough to change her mind. He hadn’t changed at all. He was still the same tall, hard-eyed, sharp-tongued, terribly imperious man she remembered from when she and Adrien were younger.

He’d offered her coffee, and then he’d peppered her with what seemed like a hundred questions about her whole life; where she was studying, what she was studying, her extracurricular activities, her friends, her parents. Then he’d given a lengthy speech on Adrien’s own studies and extracurricular activities, emphasizing the importance of his schedule and routines. It had taken all of Marinette’s willpower not to whip out a notebook and sarcastically start taking notes.

For whatever reason, though, M. Agreste approved of Marinette. It had taken but a simple phone call from his assistant to a real estate agent, and the apartment M. Agreste had chosen was his – or rather, Adrien’s. A lawyer friend of the family (every family that rich had to have a lawyer friend, it seemed) quickly drew up a contract for Marinette to sign, outlining the share of the utilities and building association dues she’d be paying. She read through it, although it was full of legal jargon she couldn’t understand. But since it was only meant to last a year, she signed it anyway and asked for a copy to show to Alya later on.

The last thing left to do was tell her parents, and that could go both ways. They were terribly protective of her, and while they wouldn’t outright forbid her from moving, they wouldn’t exactly hide their displeasure either. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to convince them to let her move out in the first place.

Or they could get all giggly and teasing, the way they did during the videogame incident back in _collège_ , when Adrien had come over to practice _Ultimate Mecha Strike III_. They’d definitely remember her crush on him. You could always count on parents to remember things like that.

In the end, telling her parents went fairly well. While Tom in particular wasn’t too enamored with the idea of his daughter rooming with a boy, both he and Sabine agreed that Adrien Agreste was nice, charming, and respectable, and if Monsieur Agreste trusted Marinette with his son, they would return the favor. All the same, Tom made Marinette write down her new address, and sternly reminded her to text him every night when she got home from class.

Sabine laughed and smiled and sent Marinette off with a box of lemon tarts as a housewarming present for Adrien.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she imparted. Marinette blushed, stammered out a thanks, and spent the whole way home mentally berating herself for not correcting her mother. She _wasn’t_ in love with Adrien, not anymore, thank you very much.

On her last day in her old apartment, Marinette scoured the place for anything she might have left behind. She’d packed up her clothes, books, and sketchpads and art materials in suitcases, while the few appliances she’d brought from home – a toaster, a few plates, spoons, forks, and mugs, and her precious coffee-maker – were in cardboard boxes she’d snagged from Alya’s recent move. The bags and boxes sat grouped around the base of the three dress forms she’d accumulated over the past year, which were the only really bulky items that needed to be transported.

When she was sure she hadn’t forgotten to pack anything, she sent Adrien a text letting him know he could pick her up. He replied with a quick, “Be there in 30 minutes,” punctuated by a cat emoji.

Marinette sighed and threw herself onto the couch in a dramatic heap, marveling at the turn of events that had led to her becoming Adrien’s new roommate. She could almost see her fifteen-year-old self, cheeks a bright red, practically catatonic with glee. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t find Adrien attractive, but she knew she was way over him. Friendship had a way of doing that to crushes, she thought, and she and Adrien were good friends now. There was no one Marinette felt closer to, except Alya.

The doorbell rang, startling Marinette out of her quiet contemplation. She paused to check her reflection, making sure that everything was in place – old habits died hard – before opening the door. Adrien stood outside, looking every inch an off duty model in an olive bomber jacket over his all-black ensemble. The expensive designer threads were belied by the sheepish grin on his face as he presented Marinette with a bouquet of daffodils.

She blushed. “ _Merci_ ,” she choked out, taking the flowers from him. “What are these for?” She let out a mental cheer at how steady she sounded, although her subconscious was screaming like a schoolgirl.

“It was Camille’s idea,” said Adrien, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “She said to get you a house-warming gift. Daffodils are supposed to mean new beginnings.”

Suddenly Marinette was very grateful for the lemon tarts Maman had given her. “Oh, I’ve got something for you too! Come in,” she said, stepping aside.

“Is this all you’re taking with you?” Adrien asked, indicating the bags and boxes piled up near the door.

“Yeah, the furniture’s not mine, it came with the place,” Marinette called from the kitchen. “Here we are!” she said cheerfully, holding out the box of lemon tarts. “From Maman and Papa.”

Adrien opened the box and took out one tart. “Your parents are so nice,” he replied around a mouthful of pastry, spraying crumbs all down his clothes. “And _really_ good bakers. These are so delicious.”

Marinette giggled. “You’re such a messy eater,” she said, taking the box from him. “Grab a bag. Where’s your car?”

“Parked downstairs,” said Adrien, shouldering one of Marinette’s bags. “You can put those in the back seat,” he added, nodding at the flowers and tarts. “Your stuff should fit in the trunk.”

“Even those?” Marinette asked, pointing to the dress forms.

Adrien frowned. “Maybe not,” he said, rubbing his chin in deep thought. “I guess I’ll just come back for them.”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” said Marinette hastily. “I’ll just come get them myself some other time!”

Adrien raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to take three mannequins on the train?”

Marinette had a horrible vision of herself and her dress forms toppling off the platform and being squished under a train. “Okay,” she said, “I guess not. But we don’t have to come back today!” she insisted. “I don’t really need them until school starts up, and I’ve got the keys to this place until my lease ends which is like, next week – so no rush!” She was aware that she was babbling, but she couldn’t help it. The image of Adrien at her door with flowers was something straight of her teenage self’s dreams. It was just a bit shocking.

“If you say so,” said Adrien, shrugging. He picked up another backpack and carried the two bags out the door, Marinette on his heels with the flowers and lemon tarts.

She wasn’t in love with him, Marinette told herself fiercely. She _wasn’t_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> _Bonjour_ \- Hello / good day
> 
>  _Mon cher_ \- My dear
> 
>  _Merci_ \- Thank you
> 
>  _Collège_ \- A level of secondary education for students aged 11 - 15, in the show this is the characters' year level
> 
>  _Salope_ \- Slut
> 
>  _Grandmère_ \- Grandmother


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we're introduced to our favorite little fox, Lila! Die-hard fans of hers, be warned - she's not exactly portrayed in a positive light.
> 
> We're also given a hint at another character, the ever elusive Maman Agreste! 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta [Dawn](http://askdawncloud700.tumblr.com) for all the help!
> 
> Ready, set, read!

Gabriel Agreste, Marinette decided, had  _way_ too much money.

The Left Bank apartment he’d purchased for his son was almost excruciatingly luxurious. The front door opened into a long entrance hallway, which ended at a living room done in shades white, beige, gray, and black that was larger than Marinette’s old apartment. The opposite wall was occupied with large curtained windows that afforded a lovely view of the city. To the left was another hallway that led to two bedrooms, and to the right was a kitchen.

There was a concierge. _A concierge._

Madame Josiane Michel was a plump woman in her late fifties, with gray curls held back in a bun, dark eyes that could spot the tiniest speck of dirt at fifty paces, and a perpetual scowl on her face. She lived in a loge on the ground floor with her dog, a lovely Continental spaniel she’d named Cosette. Madame Michel didn’t like anyone in the building, but she and Marinette had bonded over the dog, who had taken quite a shine to Marinette. Madame Michel apparently thought her little Cosette an exemplary judge of character, because she was unfailingly polite – and even friendly, on occasion – with Marinette, while remaining curt with the building’s other tenants. Not even Adrien, handsome and charming as he was, could soften old Madame Michel.

It had been a week since they’d moved in. At first, Marinette had tiptoed around the elegant apartment, afraid of leaving so much as a fingerprint on the shiny surfaces. The place looked like something out of a homemaker magazine. In fact, Marinette wouldn’t have put it past M. Agreste to have opened one, found a spread he liked, and ordered his assistant to buy everything in it.

She’d gotten over it eventually. It helped that Adrien was as sweet and unassuming behind closed doors as he was in real life. Together, they worked to make the apartment seem less like a display and more like a home. The coffee table books in the living room disappeared, replaced with sketchbooks, sheet music, fashion magazines, tattered paperbacks, and Marinette’s collection of video games. From the kitchen came the delicious smells of Marinette’s cooking, and the strains of piano music could often be heard from Adrien’s room.  

Their daily routine didn’t vary from before they’d become roommates. Adrien’s summers were often occupied with photo shoots or tapings since his agency took advantage of the sudden influx of free time. The few days he didn’t have a shoot, he was at his fencing lessons. Marinette, on the other hand, spent most of her days at the bakery. Otherwise, she was working on various freelance art projects, as well as an online portfolio Alya was helping her with.

Marinette would usually get home first. She’d chat for a bit with Madame Michel, often bringing her with some pastry or cake from her parents or dog treats for Cosette. Then she’d go up to the apartment and make dinner for the both of them. Adrien’s few attempts at cooking were – Marinette didn’t want to say “horrendous”, but her parents had taught her that honesty was the best policy, so.

Adrien came home shortly after she did, face scrubbed free of makeup or damp from a shower, depending on whether he’d come from a shoot or a fencing lesson. He’d follow his nose to the kitchen, praise Marinette’s culinary talents to the high heavens, and wolf down whatever she set in front of him.

Over dinner, they’d talk about anything and everything over dinner; their respective classes, Alya and Nino’s relationship, the bakery, and even Adrien’s father. After, Adrien would do the dishes – although Marinette had had to teach him how to use the dishwasher, their first night there. Madame Michel was not pleased with the soap stains in the parquet floors and had given Adrien a sound talking-to, which he gracefully took.

All in all, life settled into an easy routine for the two new roommates.

One evening, they invited Alya and Nino over for dinner. The couple ooh-ed and aah-ed at the apartment, marveling at (and, in Nino’s case, disparaging) the evidence of M. Agreste’s wealth. Adrien set the table with the dishes Marinette had prepared earlier that afternoon and poured the wine Alya and Nino had brought, all while raving about Marinette’s culinary talents.

“She’s a magician in the kitchen,” Adrien finished enthusiastically. “My agent’s going to hate her. I’m going to gain a million pounds living with her. You just can’t say no to her food.”

“Seems you’re enjoying having Marinette as a roommate,” Alya remarked casually.

Marinette reddened. She extended her foot and kicked Alya’s ankle under the table, narrowing her eyes warningly. Alya ignored her and smiled pleasantly at Adrien.

“She’s wonderful,” said Adrien, missing the death glare Marinette was shooting her best friend. “Her cooking’s amazing, and she was so patient when she taught me how to do laundry.”

Nino snorted. “You’d need to have the patience of a saint to teach _you_ how to do laundry,” he said. “And how to wash dishes. And use a vacuum cleaner. And – ”

“All right, already. We get the point,” Adrien interrupted, rolling his eyes.

“Adrien’s a fast learner,” said Marinette reassuringly, sipping at her wine.

“I hope so,” said Alya, helping herself to the food Adrien had set before them. “I won’t have Marinette working herself to the bone for you, Adrien.”

“Come on, _mon cœur_ , Adrien wouldn’t do that,” Nino said. “He’s such a gentleman, I’m surprised Marinette here isn’t sitting on a throne with a stool under her feet and a tiara on her head.”

Marinette blushed. “Nino,” she said reprovingly. “I have to pull my weight around the house too, you know.”

“And I wouldn’t dream of letting Marinette do all the work,” Adrien insisted. “We split the housework evenly.”

“Except for the cooking,” demurred Marinette. “And I think the fire department would appreciate it.” She and Adrien glanced at each other, then burst into laughter.

Neither of them saw the significant look Alya and Nino exchanged.

 

* * *

 

The summer was finally winding down. Marinette would be beginning a new year at ESMOD, while Adrien would start a new term at the École Normale de Musique de Paris. Since Marinette’s school was only a few minutes’ drive from the École Normale, Adrien offered to drive them both. His car, a shiny black Jaguar, was intimidating as hell – Marinette had only ever ridden buses, trains, and her parents’ simple sedan her whole life – but she forced down her inhibitions and clambered into the front seat, resisting the urge to take a selfie with the car.

“This won’t take long,” said Adrien, as he parked in front of the school. “You could come inside with me if you want.”

“I’ll be fine here, it’s such a nice day,” Marinette replied cheerfully. Privately, she thought that if she entered the school at his side, people would jump to conclusions and she’d come off worse for the wear. Adrien had his legion of adoring fangirls, after all. “I’ll sit over there and work on some sketches,” she added, indicating a nearby bench. “Don’t worry about me.”

Marinette tried her best to suppress the giggly schoolgirl that emerged when Adrien climbed out of the car and opened the door for her. She took his proffered hand and congratulated herself on her composure, the little smile and polite “thank you” she gave in response. Nothing at all to suggest that her heart had started pounding the minute she touched his hand.

“I won’t be long!” Adrien called over his shoulder as he disappeared inside.

“Take your time,” Marinette replied. It was exactly the kind of day she liked, sunny with just a touch of a chill in the air. The kind of day that said summer was almost gone, and autumn about to begin.

She sat down on the bench, crossed her legs, and propped up a sketchbook on her knee. She had a series of poses to finish for a client, and they were due tomorrow. All were finished except for this last one, and she’d run out of ideas.

She tapped the end of her pencil against her chin, deep in thought. Unbidden, the image of Adrien driving his car rose in her mind. She began sketching out a figure in a seated position, arms stretched out and long, elegant fingers gripping an as-yet undrawn steering wheel. Adrien would be a treat to draw, Marinette thought, long-limbed and perfectly-proportioned as he was.

Idly, she wondered if Adrien would agree to pose for her. Of course, there were tons of photographs of him in magazines and on billboards, his face splashed on advertisements all across Europe. But there couldn’t be too many drawings of him, could there? She thought of charcoals, smudged strategically, white spaces where light would fall on his face. Oils would be perfect for capturing the beauty and symmetry of his features. However, Marinette wasn’t too experienced with them, and she’d hate to mess up a painting of Adrien.

She was sketching in the beginnings of a pair of legs when a shadow fell over her, obscuring the sketchpad. “Excuse me,” said Marinette, looking up, “do you think you could – ”

A tall, slim girl stood before her, arms folded across her chest. She would have been lovely, with her long brown hair, almond green eyes, and smooth olive skin, were it not for the disdainful sneer curling her lips. She glanced down at the sketchpad. “That’s a nice drawing,” she said coolly.

Marinette pulled the pad away. “Can I help you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, _cara mia_ , but maybe I can help you.” The girl extended a hand, which Marinette reluctantly shook. “My name is Lila Renard,” she said. “I’m a student here.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Marinette replied, discreetly glancing around for an escape route. Her ‘crazy Adrien fangirl’ sense was tingling.

“And you are…?”

“Marinette.”

“ _Ciao_ , Marinette. Nice to meet you,” she said, although the sneer on her face belied her words. “Why were you with Adrien?” she asked innocently.

Far too innocently, Marinette thought. “We’re neighbors,” she lied easily. “He gives me rides sometimes.”

“Neighbors?” Lila repeated suspiciously. “I haven’t heard of any girls in his neighborhood that are his age. And no one’s moved in recently, none of the houses in the area have gone up for sale.”

Oh no. This girl was a _stalker_ , Marinette thought fearfully. It was like something out of the newspapers, where people who were convinced their celebrity crush was in love with them followed them around and memorized their daily routines. She clamped her mouth shut, not about to tell Lila that Adrien had moved out of his father’s house.

Marinette’s silence only proved to frustrate Lila. “Listen to me, and listen good,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Adrien is _mine_.” She leaned forward threateningly, jabbing a finger in the direction of Adrien’s Jaguar. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, riding around in his car, making lovesick sketches of him. But it won’t work. He’s mine, and everyone knows it. So you can just forget whatever scheme you’ve got cooking up in that pretty little head of yours.”

Marinette’s mouth dropped open. ‘Crazy Adrien fangirl’ didn’t quite cover this. Her instincts for self-preservation warred with the urge to tell this girl off. Who was she to call Adrien _hers_ , like he was some kind of alley cat she’d picked up off the streets?

Luckily, she was saved from having to respond by none other than the object of Lila’s – affections? Obsession? That line, Marinette thought, was pretty blurred.

“Hi, Lila,” Adrien greeted his self-proclaimed girlfriend, waving a hand. “I see you’ve met Marinette.”

“ _Mi amore_!” Lila exclaimed, throwing herself into Adrien’s arms. “Why didn’t you call me? My summer’s been so  _boring_ without you!”

Adrien grimaced. “I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “I was very busy.”

“Oh, yes, I saw your latest photoshoot,” Lila tittered. She hooked an arm through Adrien’s and beamed up at him. “I bought every scent from that perfume line. It all smells so divine, I couldn’t possibly just choose one.”

“He didn’t actually produce the perfume, you know,” said Marinette, furiously slamming her sketchbook shut. This Lila was worse than Chloé!

Lila scowled. “I was showing my support,” she snapped. “Adrien appreciates it, don’t you, _mi amore_?” she added, turning back to Adrien with a wide-eyed, slavish look on her face.

“Of course, thank you,” said Adrien, smoothly wriggling out of Lila’s embrace. “I appreciate the support from all my friends.”

At the word ‘friends’, Lila’s face fell. “But, _mi amore_ – ”

“We really must be going,” Adrien continued blithely, helping Marinette up from the bench. She cheered inwardly, resisting the urge to childishly stick out her tongue at Lila. Adrien ushered her into the front seat, again holding the door open, before circling the car and climbing into the driver’s seat. “We still have to head over to ESMOD so Marinette can enroll.”

“Bye now!” said Adrien cheerfully, before slamming the door in Lila’s face.

At that, Marinette gave into her baser urges, looked out the window at Lila, and gave her a jaunty little wave and a sweet smile. Lila’s cheeks turned a deep, ugly red, and she turned on her heel and stomped away.

It was worth it, Marinette decided, although she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d inadvertently made herself Lila’s unwilling rival for Adrien’s affections.

 

* * *

 

“Who was _that_?” Marinette asked, when they returned to the apartment later that afternoon, laden with groceries, school materials, and their respective class schedules. “Another of your groupies?” she teased.

Adrien rolled his eyes. “Her name’s Lila,” he said. “She’s a flautist. We have a music theory class together.”

“She seemed a little…” Marinette trailed off, not quite sure how to put it. She readjusted the grocery bag in her arms and headed to the kitchen, Adrien on her heels. “...enthusiastic,” she finished, as she began sorting the groceries.

Adrien snorted. “That’s  _really_ putting it mildly,” he said. “Remember how Chloé was when we were younger? Lila is a thousand times worse.” He shuddered. “At least Chloé had the excuse of being fifteen then. We’re in university and Lila still acts like a child.”

“That bad, huh?” said Marinette, grouping together the items to be placed in the fridge. Milk, eggs, a variety of vegetables… “Oh, _zut_ , Adrien, we forgot to get cheese.”

“I can pass the supermarket tomorrow after my fencing class,” Adrien replied. “Can I have an apple?”

“Help yourself.”

Adrien grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Lila is…let’s just say, complicated,” he said, rinsing the apple at the sink. “She’s from Italy. She only came to Paris for university because her dad’s a diplomat, and he’s stationed here for the next few years. She’s been here for a little over two years and she doesn’t have many friends.”

“That’s sad,” murmured Marinette. “I kinda feel bad for making fun of her now.”

“There was this incident when we were freshmen,” said Adrien. “She claimed to be dating this famous violinist, Ali Achu.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him!” exclaimed Marinette. “Isn’t he the one whose stage name is Prince Ali?”

“Yeah, that’s him. She said she was his ‘secret girlfriend’, and they couldn’t go public with their relationship because his manager had forbidden him to see anyone. But one of our classmates, Rose, turned out to be Ali’s childhood best friend, and she outed Lila as a liar. Since then, no one’s really liked her.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have lied in the first place,” Marinette insisted. “She must have known she’d be found out sooner or later.”

“I try my best to be nice to her,” said Adrien, in between bites of his apple, “but you’ve seen how she gets. It’s really hard to be friendly when she takes every ‘ _bonjour_ ’ to mean ‘ _je t'aime_ ’.”

Marinette giggled. Any other guy would sound so self-centered and full of himself, talking about girls that were into them. Adrien, on the other hand, just sounded exasperated, and a little disbelieving, as though he couldn’t comprehend someone actually being in love with him.

Wow, thought Marinette, she’d made herself sad.

“What’s for dinner?” Adrien asked, tossing the apple core in the trash.

“I was thinking of _pâtes_ ,” said Marinette. “Now, where did I put the pesto?” she muttered to herself, looking round the kitchen.

“Hang on, I’ll get it.” Adrien rummaged around in the spice rack and withdrew a jar of pesto, when the ringing of an iPhone burbled up from Adrien’s pocket. “Hang on,” he said, handing over the pesto. “Might be my agent. He said he’d give me a call tonight about a possible shoot next week.”

Marinette’s brow furrowed with worry. “I feel like they’re overworking you, Adrien,” she said. “You’ve practically got a shoot everyday!”

Adrien shrugged. “In the great words of Rihanna – ”

“Please don’t start singing.”

Adrien laughed, fished out his phone, and put to his ear. “Hello?” he said, still grinning at Marinette.

Were one to ask Marinette to describe that moment, she knew, somewhere in her narration, there would be mention of heartbreak. There was no other word that could adequately capture how quickly his smile disappeared, the sudden way Adrien paled, the look of shock and utter misery that crossed his face.

“Yes,” he said tersely, his lips pressed together so tightly they’d turned white. “That’s fine.” A long pause. “I’d prefer somewhere...less private.” An even longer pause followed. Adrien sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”

A few heartbeats passed with Adrien standing there, staring at his phone in disbelief, and Marinette silently, warily regarding him. Suddenly, Adrien’s grip on his phone tightened and with a hoarse yell, he hurled it at the wall. It landed on the floor with a resounding crack.

“Adrien!” Marinette cried. She rushed over to him as he staggered over to the countertop and slumped over it in a dejected heap. “What’s wrong? Who was that?”

Adrien mumbled something, refusing to raise his head.

“I’m sorry?” Marinette asked, leaning in closer. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I said,” muttered Adrien, “that was my mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> Concierge - In France, a concierge is the caretaker of an apartment complex
> 
>  _Mon cœur_ \- French endearment meaning ‘my heart’
> 
> École Normale de Musique de Paris - A music conservatory school in Paris
> 
>  _Cara mia_ \- Italian endearment meaning ‘my dear’
> 
>  _Ciao_ \- Hello / goodbye
> 
>  _Mi amore_ \- Italian endearment meaning ‘my love’
> 
>  _Zut_ \- Damn
> 
>  _Pâtes_ \- Pasta
> 
>  
> 
> **Further notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> Madame Josiane Michel is a reference to Renée Michel, a character in the book _The Elegance of the Hedgehog_ by Muriel Barbery. Madame Michel is a concierge in an apartment complex in Paris, and I couldn’t resist putting her here in my fic. Her presence is not important to the plot, but I do suggest you take the time to read _The Elegance of the Hedgehog_ if you can. It’s a wonderful book!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger last chapter! Hope this makes up for it!
> 
> By the way, I'm sorry if it seems like the story is dragging, but I really like to build the characterizations and set up the story before really getting into the swing of things. Your patience is about to be rewarded though! Interesting things start happening in the next chapters...
> 
> Love as always to my darling beta [Dawn](http://askdawncloud700.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thank you for reading!

That morning, Marinette was quiet.

That’s how Adrien knew she was worried. Normally, Marinette talked faster than the mind could follow, jumping from one topic to the next with jarring swiftness. Sometimes it seemed like the only time she ever really stopped talking was when she was working on her designs. Even when she was cooking, she kept up a flow of running commentary that highly entertained Adrien. He sometimes jokingly called her the Marinette Channel – all Marinette, all the time.

Today, however, she was deathly silent. She made breakfast without any of her usual comments on the weather, the news, or her schedule for the day. Instead, she sat across from Adrien and made quick work of her food, spreading apricot jam on her toast with a mute efficiency that was incredibly atypical of her.

On the one hand, Adrien was touched. He’d only ever seen Marinette reach this level of worry with Alya (like that one time she’d ended up in the hospital after she fell from the balcony of a notorious CEO’s hotel room; it had been left to Nino to go into hysterics about how getting a scoop was _not_ more important than her health and safety, while Marinette sat at Alya’s bedside with her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed dangerously), and he liked the thought of being that important to her.

On the other, a silent Marinette was an unnerving Marinette.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief when, as she was pouring coffee for the both of them, Marinette finally broke the silence and said, “So, where will you be meeting your mother?”

“At Le Grand Paris,” Adrien answered. “That’s where she’s staying.”

“I see.” Marinette sipped at her coffee, eyeing Adrien over the rim. “And you’ll tell me everything when you get home, won’t you?”

For a moment, Adrien considered refusing. He knew Marinette wouldn’t push, would let him come to her when he was ready, unlike Nino, or even Alya, who would’ve poked and prodded until they’d gotten what they wanted. But he decided Marinette deserved the truth. It was thanks to her anyway that he’d gotten out of his father’s mansion and gotten to live in his own apartment.

“Of course,” he replied.

Marinette nodded, satisfied. “Thank you,” she said.

She was much chattier after that, although nowhere near her usual exuberant self. Just before she left for her shift at the bakery, her hair tied up and an apron hastily stuffed into her backpack, she went up on her tiptoes and kissed Adrien on the cheek. “For good luck,” she said.

Adrien still felt her lips long after she’d gone.

He canceled everything he had for the day, much too nervous to do anything but dither around the apartment until lunchtime. He tried working on his summer homework, an original composition he wanted to present at the École Normale’s annual concert at the end of the school year, but he couldn’t get himself into the necessary mindset.

He stared at the empty staff paper on his desk, chin propped up in his hand. He had a melody in his head, a simple phrase that he knew would eventually become the song’s chorus, it’s focal point and foundation; but he couldn’t get past it to expand the piece. The melody was sweet, lighthearted, calling to mind gentle hands and soothing murmurs. Adrien had hummed it out of nowhere one day, then tried the notes out on his keyboard. The short, melodic phrase had evoked a feeling of calm and safety, and he’d known that, if he could just get the rest of the song out of him, it would be his best work yet.

That, however, was proving to be a very big if.

He got up from his keyboard, grabbed his phone, and collapsed on the bed. **You busy?** he typed, and sent to Chloé.

Her reply came quickly. **_Oui_** **, but I welcome the distraction.**

 **Is it work?** Adrien asked.

**Of a sort. Some spoiled brat is crying about her champagne not being the right kind. She screamed at the bellboy who brought it up to her room. She’s about to learn that nobody screams at my staff except me.**

Adrien chuckled. Chloé would rather die than admit it to anyone, but she’d developed a soft spot for Le Grand Paris’s staff, especially those that had been there from her childhood. **You’ll never guess who called me last night,** he texted.

 **I’d think up something bitingly witty to respond with, but dealing with this skinny piece of work is sapping all my thinking skills,** Chloé replied. **Who called?**

**Maman.**

Adrien sent that text, then quickly added, **She wants to meet. She’s in Paris. Staying at your hotel.**

A few minutes of silence passed by. Adrien guessed Chloé was either frozen with shock or composing an angry text message full of expletives. Knowing her though, it was likely the latter.

 ** _Merde_** **_merde merde merde_** , was Chloé’s reply, punctuated by numerous exclamation points. **What gives her the right to come waltzing back into your life like she hasn’t been gone since we were kids?** This was quickly followed by, **Hang on, I’m gonna call you.**

A few seconds later, the phone rung. “Is she still using the name Agreste?” Chloé asked, when Adrien picked up. “I’m gonna go find her room and I’m gonna push her out a window.”

“Now, Chloé, no need for that,” Adrien replied, grinning widely. He could practically see Chloé pacing back and forth, gesturing vigorously with her hands like she always did when she was furious, which was often. “We’re having lunch at the hotel, so I kind of need her alive for that.”

“Oh, Adrikins, you’re much too forgiving for your own good,” Chloé chided. “Do you want to be there? I could sit way in the back in a trench coat with a newspaper to cover my face. I have just the thing, this lovely little Burberry I bought last week.”

Adrien laughed. “No thank you, Chlo. I do appreciate the offer, but I just wanted some advice.” He paused, wondering what to ask. Then, he decided on a simple, “What should I do?”

There was another long pause, and Adrien knew Chloé was struggling to say something helpful. “Honestly,” she replied, “if that were me, I wouldn’t even give her the time of day. But I sense that’s not really what you want to hear from me.”

“Not really,” Adrien admitted. “She…there’s a lot she has to answer for. But she _is_ my mother. I can at least do her the courtesy of seeing her.”

“Then do that,” said Chloé. “Let her in a little bit. Tell her about school, and your fencing, and Marinette.” It was, Adrien thought, a mark of how serious Chloé considered the situation, that there was no sign of her trademark disdain when she spoke Marinette’s name. “But don’t promise her anything else. She doesn’t deserve that much. At least, not yet.”

“‘Yet’?”

“I assume she’s returned to Paris to worm her way back into your good graces,” said Chloé dryly. “Whether or not she succeeds is entirely up to you. But for now, keep your guard up.”

“ _Merci_ , Chloé,” said Adrien sincerely. “That’s surprisingly good advice.”

“‘Surprisingly’? _Mon cher_ , you wound me.”

“Please. Perez Hilton himself couldn’t insult you.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Chloé cackled. “ _Salut, mon cher_. _Bonne chance!_ ”

“ _Salut_ , Chloé.”

Adrien sighed and hung up. Let her in, but don’t promise anything, he thought to himself. How was he going to go about doing that?

He decided to quit moping and go get dressed. He showered quickly, then spent an hour in front of his closet deciding what to wear. What was considered appropriate for meeting your estranged mother over lunch?

Eventually, he chose the attire he normally donned when his father made him attend board meetings: jeans, a plain white tee, and a black blazer. It made him look the part, a businessman’s son as ruthless as his father. He wanted to present that version of himself to his mother – a cold and stoic young man, the very picture of Gabriel Agreste. He didn’t want to be the little boy who cried himself to sleep every night, wondering where Maman was.

 

* * *

 

The restaurant at Le Grand Paris had changed once Chloé had taken over. It had once been regal and imposing, a grand old dining room done in velvet and mahogany, serving wine and traditional French cuisine. Chloé had turned it into something stylish and trendy, with white walls, white and black checkered floors, lace white tablecloths, and an incomprehensible cocktail menu.

Adrien walked in, feeling the stares of the diners settle on as usual. This time, though, he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. He had other things to worry about.

The maître d’ approached him. “Excuse me,” she said in a soft voice, “Monsieur Agreste?”

“Yes?”

“Madame Agreste has reserved one of our private rooms,” the maître d’ explained. “This way, _s’il vous plaît_.”

Adrien followed the woman to a row of intricately carved wooden doors in the back of the restaurant. She opened the first door, which led to a room with windows that looked out onto the street. “Your server will be with you shortly,” the maître d’ said, ushering Adrien into the room.

And suddenly, for the first time in over ten years, Adrien was face to face with his mother.

Blanche Agreste was no longer the young, fresh-faced woman whose photo Adrien still secretly kept on his laptop. Oh, she was as beautiful as ever, garbed in a turquoise dress and matching high heels, blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders, crow’s feet at her almond green eyes as her perfectly lipsticked mouth curved into a welcoming smile. She looked – not just older, Adrien realized, but tireder. Like the years had taken their toll.

“Adrien, _mon petit_ ,” said Blanche, “you look wonderful.” She got to her feet and enveloped Adrien in an embrace. She smelled like L’Air du Temps and lavender powder. “Come, sit, sit,” she said, pulling out a chair for Adrien. “Order anything you’d like, this lunch is on me,” she added, returning to her own seat.

“ _Bonjour_ , Maman,” said Adrien awkwardly. “You look nice too.”

Blanche laughed. “Oh, don’t flatter your old maman,” she said. “I know I’m not the young beauty I was.” She sighed and patted her hair. “Still, I have the most wonderful hairdresser, and she…” She trailed off. “But of course you don’t want to hear about that!” she said quickly.

There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, broken by Blanche, clearly in an attempt to make conversation, casually asking, “André Bourgeois owns this place, doesn’t he? Is he here?”

A waiter entered the room, forestalling Adrien’s reply. “Are _madame_ and _m’sieur_ ready to order?” he asked.

“Yes, please. I’ll have sautéed scallops, please, and the filet of cod,” said Adrien, scanning the menu quickly. “And a glass of house white.”

“The asparagus, and the grilled white tuna, please,” Blanche added. “And a glass of house white as well.”

The waiter put away his little notebook, gave them a curt nod, and left. Adrien glanced back at his mother, who had clasped her hands on the table and was looking determinedly at them, as though afraid to meet Adrien’s gaze.

“Chloé Bourgeois manages the hotel now,” said Adrien, taking pity on Blanche and answering her earlier question. Anything was better than the heavy silence hanging between them. “She’s Monsieur Bourgeois’ daughter.”

“Yes, I remember her. You two were such great friends when you were children,” said Blanche, smiling fondly. “It’s nice to know you’ve kept in touch. And where is Monsieur Bourgeois?”

“In Milan,” Adrien answered, remembering his and Chloé’s conversation from last week. “He’s...um...retired.”

Blanche’s gaze flickered back up to Adrien, eyes wide with surprise. “He’s not in Paris?” she asked.

“No. He left – well, it would have been two years ago, I guess,” said Adrien, thinking back. They’d all just started university, and it had been one of the worst moments of Chloé’s life. It was also the moment, Adrien felt, that had truly cemented the strange friendship that had blossomed between the two of them. Two lonely rich kids bonding over absent parents. It was the stuff of soap operas. “He left management of the hotel to Chloé, and he’s been traveling around Europe ever since.”

“Indeed,” said Blanche wryly. “How nice.” There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone that Adrien wanted to ask about, but he decided to let it be. If there was any bad blood between Blanche and André Bourgeois, that was none of his business.

“Maman,” Adrien ventured, suddenly realizing something, “how did you get my number anyway?”

“Oh, from your father’s assistant, _mon petit_ ,” said Blanche. “Such a nice young lady.”

“I see,” said Adrien, frowning slightly. He resolved to have a word with Camille on giving away his contact details willy-nilly. “So,” he continued, as the waiter made a discreet entrance with their wine, as well as a platter of bread, “how have you been, Maman?”

“Lovely, just lovely,” Blanche replied. “I’ve just come from Salzburg. It’s so beautiful in the fall. Do you know, they have these _The Sound of Music_ tours? They’re just divine, we must go sometime.”

“Austria. That’s nice,” Adrien choked out, fist tightening around his fork. In the ten years she’d been gone, not once had she attempted to reconnect with her son, and this was her peace offering? It was a struggle to maintain a cool facade, but he managed. “Do you live there?”

“Oh, no,” said Blanche. “I have a house in London. That’s where I stay full-time. I have my own fashion house now. I design wedding dresses. Perhaps you’ve seen my work?”

Adrien suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Blanche Agreste, runaway wife, designing wedding dresses. That was rich.

“Oh, but enough about me!” said Blanche. “I want to know all about you, Adrien. Where do you go to school? What do you study?”

“I go to the École Normale de Musique,” said Adrien blandly, privately thinking to himself that Blanche would know all the answers to her questions if she’d bothered keeping in touch with her only child. “I study piano.”

“Oh, but that’s wonderful, _mon petit_ ,” Blanche gushed. “I remember how you loved playing when you were a child.”

“Yeah, I – ” Adrien’s eyes widened as he realized what she said. “You remember?”

“ _Bien sûr_! I bought you your first piano.” Blanche chuckled. “It was a little keyboard, just the right size for a toddler. Gabriel said I was indulging you too much, you wouldn’t even know how to use it. But you adored it. You never wanted to stop playing, even when your music was giving the _au pair_ a headache.”

Adrien chuckled, seeing himself, a towheaded little four-year-old, banging away at a toy piano with unbridled enthusiasm. His earlier memories of his mother rose in his mind, taking over from the anger and resentment just waiting to boil over. He remembered her teaching him how to dance, reading to him at night and tucking him into bed, having the cook teach her how to make crepes the way Adrien liked them, how excited she was for his first day at _maternelle_. He remembered how he’d loved _maternelle_ but dreaded the thought of _École primaire_ , and how she’d hugged him and kissed him and promised she’d be back to pick him up at the end of the day.

“I was your first teacher,” Blanche continued, “I taught you the basics, the old finger exercises my own teacher taught me when I was younger. But then you proceeded to a level far higher than mine, and so your papa and I had to hire a tutor. Do you remember him?”

“Yes, I do remember him. Monsieur Leroy,” said Adrien, smiling at the memory of the old retired pianist. He had been a dear old man, who not only taught Adrien how to play classic pieces, but also songs from Disney movies and cartoon TV shows. “He was so nice, and he was such a good teacher.”

“He’d be so happy to know you’ve decided to take your passion to the next step,” said Blanche.

They talked over their lunch, and unable to help himself, Adrien basked in the attention from his mother. For a few hours, he forgot that she’d left them when he was only ten, that she’d abandoned a husband she’d promised to love and cherish forever, and a son whose whole world was his mother. For a few hours, Adrien forgot how Blanche Agreste had destroyed their family.

But these fairy tales don’t last forever.

Soon enough, Blanche announced that she had to leave. “But I’ll be in Paris for the next few weeks, _mon petit_ ,” she reassured him as she took the check. “We should meet up again soon.”

Chloé’s words echoed. _Let her in a little bit. But don’t promise her anything else._ Adrien thought of his younger self, the poor little boy who was so heartbroken when his mother had left, and figured he owed it to that child to at least try. “Of course, Maman,” he said. “When would you like to meet?”

“How about next week?” Blanche suggested. “Are your summer holidays over?”

“They’re winding down. My classes start in September.”

“So soon! Well then, we mustn’t waste anymore time. Are you free next Monday?”

“I have fencing lessons in the morning, but I’m free after that.”

“ _Formidable_! Here’s my local number,” said Blanche, scribbling a mobile number on a napkin and handing it to Adrien. “Give me a call. I’ll come pick you up, and we can go to my favorite _patisserie_ in all of Paris. We can have ourselves a little picnic. It will be much cosier. And we can talk more.”

“Of course, Maman,” said Adrien, a little overwhelmed by his mother’s enthusiasm.

“And, _mon petit_ ,” said Blanche, lowering her voice, “would you do your maman a favor and keep this between us for the meantime?” She sighed deeply. “I’d like nothing more than to speak with your father too, but… Well, we both know how he is.” She chuckled. “He’s not exactly the most reasonable of people, is he?”

And, just like that, the goodwill that had bloomed in Adrien for his mother disappeared.

“‘How he is’?” he quoted, radiating cold fury. He felt simultaneously smothered and ignored by his father, but Gabriel Agreste, for all his faults, had at least tried to raise his son. “I know how he is. He’s arrogant and controlling and sometimes I wonder if he feels anything at all, but he _stayed_ , Maman. He stayed, and looked after me. He _cared_.”

Blanche eyes widened, glittering with sudden tears. “ _Mon petit_ – ”

Adrien stood, roughly shoving the chair back. “I’ll call you next week,” he said stiffly. “I might be busy after my fencing classes.” He inclined his head. “ _Au revoir_ , Maman.”

With that, he turned his back on her and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> _Oui_ \- Yes
> 
>  _Merde_ \- Shit
> 
>  _Salut_ \- Hello / goodbye (informal)
> 
>  _Bonne chance_ \- Good luck
> 
>  _S’il vous plaît_ \- Please
> 
>  _Mon petit_ \- French endearment meaning ‘my little one’
> 
>  _Bien sûr_ \- Of course
> 
>  _Maternelle_ \- Nursery school
> 
>  _École primaire_ \- Primary school
> 
>  _Formidable_ \- Wonderful
> 
>  _Patisserie_ \- Bakery
> 
>  _Au revoir_ \- Goodbye
> 
> **Further notes:**
> 
> I don't actually know if the École Normale has an annual end-of-the-year concert for its students. Artistic license employed in order to get Adrien to play in front of an audience. :p


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! Chaiptre quatre!
> 
> As always, thank you to my simply magnificent beta [Dawn](http://askdawncloud700.tumblr.com) for all her help. Good luck with your last final bb! Summer's just around the corner!
> 
> To everyone who's reassured me that the slow pace isn't off-putting, THANK YOU. To those who're beginning to get bored - please stick around? :( I promise it'll get juicy real soon.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left comments or kudos! You guys give me the energy and motivation to keep writing. I love EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU.
> 
> Have a Tumblr? Add me up at [burgischloe](http://burgischloe.tumblr.com). I'm friendly and follow back!
> 
> Ready, set, READ!

Sometimes, especially when it was a particularly slow day, Alya came by the bakery to hang out with Marinette. She’d sit at the cash register, laptop on the counter, tapping away at her latest blog post. Unlike Nino, who worked at a coffee shop, or Marinette, who had her job at the bakery, Alya’s main source of income was her blog, _Lady Wifi_. She’d started the thing back in _collège_ , and had amassed a huge following over the years. She wrote about anything and everything, from fashion and style to current events and politics. Sometimes, her dedication to a story surpassed actual, professional reporters. Marinette was sure that by the time they all graduated, Alya would have several offers not just from local media outlets, but international ones as well.

“You should have seen her, Alya,” said Marinette as she refilled the baskets of croissants on one of the counters. Those were always the first to go, along with her father’s macarons. “She was totally nuts, warning me away from Adrien like she was his girlfriend or something. I used to think stalkers like that only existed on TV shows!”

Alya shook her head. “Lots of celebrities have gotten into pretty nasty scrapes with their stalkers,” she said. “I did an interview with Jagged Stone a few months ago, and the comments section was flooded with comments by the same guy. At first I thought it was your run-of-the-mill crazy fan. Then, get this – I get a call from Jagged’s assistant, asking me to block that IP address. Turns it out it’s this totally obsessed stalker of his. There’s a restraining order and everything!”

Marinette shuddered. “I hope nothing bad happens to Adrien,” she said, dusting her hands off on her apron. “That Lila girl seemed like really bad news.”

Alya smirked. “Well, not everyone can have to coveted position of being Adrien Agreste’s roommate,” she said loftily.

“You make it sound like…” Marinette blushed. “Like we’re _living_ together,” she whispered.

“Honey, you _are_ living together.”

“Yeah, but not, you know… _living_ -living.”

Alya snorted. “Yeah, I totally understood that,” she said.

“Oh, you know what I mean!” cried Marinette. She hoisted herself up onto the counter next to Alya’s laptop. “Living together like a _couple_.”

Alya laughed. “Marinette, what are you worried about, really?” She smiled slyly. “Worried about falling in love with Tall, Blonde, and Very Handsome?”

Marinette smacked Alya on the shoulder. “Alya,” she chided. “You know I’m not in love with him. But if any of his fans – Lila especially – think I am, and then they find out we’re roommates – ” She drew a line across her neck, pantomiming slitting her throat.

“You have a point.”

“You don’t have the monopoly on smarts around here.”

“But I do get the lion’s share, admit it,” said Alya, winking.

Marinette rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. “Don’t I know it,” she said, pinching Alya’s side.

“Ow! Let go of me, you – ”

The buzzing of Alya’s phone interrupted the good-natured wrestling. She pushed Marinette off her and grabbed the mobile. “Oh, it’s my mom,” she said. “Hello Maman! What’s up?”

Marinette left Alya to the conversation with her mom and retreated to the kitchen, where a new batch of muffins was waiting in the oven. Her parents were both at the kitchen island, mixing bowls of batter. “What were you and Alya talking about, _ma chèrie_?” asked Sabine.

“A friend of Adrien’s that I met,” said Marinette, sliding her hands into a pair of oven mitts. “One of his fans. She was a bit...enthusiastic.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Tom harrumphed. “I still go out for drinks on the weekends with Roger, you know,” he added ominously. “He’s with the DCPJ now. I can talk to him if you’d like.”

“Papa,” Marinette scolded, “don’t be such a bear. Lila’s harmless.”

“Tom, really, there’s no need to overreact,” Sabine added. “Why, it wasn’t too long ago that Marinette was a devoted fan of Adrien’s as well! I remember that collage of his photos that you had on your wall, _ma chèrie_ , and how you couldn’t talk to him without turning red!”

“Maman!”

Alya poked her head into the kitchen. “Are we making fun of Marinette?” she asked, grinning cheekily. “I’d love to join in!”

“Alya!”

“Come on, Marinette, you were totally a fangirl,” said Alya. “True, you never went up to anyone and threatened them, but you would’ve done Chloé if you felt the situation called for it.”

“We were kids, it’s not creepy for a kid to idolize someone like that!” Marinette protested, carefully extracting a tray of muffins from the oven. She transferred the tray to a cooling rack, then turned to face Alya, hands on her hips. “Adrien said so himself.”

“Oh, well, if _Adrien_ says so – ”

“Now, girls,” said Tom, while Sabine chuckled. “Marinette, you know I only worry for you,” he said. “You’re absolutely sure this fan of Adrien’s won’t be a problem?”

“Not at all, Papa,” said Marinette. “She creeped me out a little, but I’m sure she won’t be any trouble.”

“Anyway,” said Alya, latching onto Marinette’s hand and dragging her out of the kitchen, “I’m gonna borrow Marinette for a sec, I’ve got something to tell her.”

“Make it quick!” Tom hollered as the two girls scampered. “I’ve got another batch of muffins waiting for you, Marinette.”

“Yes, Papa!” Marinette called back. “What is it?” she asked, as Alya sat back down at her laptop and began tapping away at it.

“That was my mother, on the phone,” she said, still typing. “She had news for me. Guess who’s in town and was seen having lunch at Le Grand Paris with Adrien?” She finished typing and presented the laptop to Marinette with a flourish.

On the screen was an article on a fashion house in London. Alya had scrolled down to the portion of the article talking about the fashion house’s founder, and Marinette found herself looking at a photo of an elegant blonde woman with familiar green eyes.

_Blanche Agreste, 51, is at home in a whirlwind of chaos. She thrives under pressure, she tells us. “I can’t imagine my life any other way,” she says. We can’t, either. Blanche has made quite a name for herself in the wedding industry. Her line, Voile de Mariée Blanche, provides wedding dresses, flower arrangements, veils, and other bridal accoutrements for the upper echelons of European society. Debutantes, celebrities, socialites, heiresses, top-tier businesswoman – anyone who’s anyone wants to wear an original Blanche on their special day._

“It’s Adrien’s mother,” said Alya.

Marinette nodded slowly. She could still hear the clatter of Adrien’s phone when he threw at the wall, the stricken look on his face when he explained. “Yeah,” she said. “I remember. It was a huge scandal back then, when she left.”

“Still is,” said Alya, quickly scanning the article. “Look, no mention of Adrien or his dad anywhere in this article.”

Alya was right. The only reference there was to Madame Agreste’s past was a little aside at the end of the article. _Before Blanche moved to London, she lived in Paris, where she was a known socialite._

A known socialite with a husband and son, thought Marinette sadly. What on earth had happened to Blanche Agreste that she’d left her family like that?

“Alya,” said Marinette slowly, “I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t write about this just yet, please,” Marinette pleaded. “Wait until I talk to Adrien, at least? I know it’s a juicy story, but let me talk to him first. This has to be so hard for him.”

Alya’s eyes softened. “Of course, Marinette,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of running with this unless Adrien said it was okay. Tell you what.” She opened another window and logged onto her e-mail. “I’m going to message my contacts and tell them to keep a tight lid on this story until you talk to Adrien. How’s that sound?”

Marinette’s eyes widened. “You have _that_ much influence?”

Alya winked. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” she singsonged, as she began composing an e-mail.

Marinette chuckled and returned to her work. There really were times she was convinced that this was Alya’s world, and they were all just living in it. At least she could now talk to Adrien and ask how he was feeling before the news was splattered across newspapers, magazines, and Internet articles all over France.

 

* * *

 

 

When Marinette got home from her shift, Adrien was already back. His coat was on the couch, and there was an empty cup of tea on the coffee table. From his bedroom, she could hear piano music.

She sighed, divested herself of her coat and bag, and headed for the kitchen. She made another cup of tea, and poured in a dash of whiskey for good measure. Thusly armed, she went over to Adrien’s room and knocked firmly on the door.

The music stopped. “Marinette?”

“It’s me.”

There was a long pause before Adrien answered. “Come in.”

Marinette stepped inside, surreptitiously taking in her surroundings. Since they’d moved in together, she’d never been inside Adrien’s room. The walls were covered with posters of pianists, both classical and modern, as well as posters of Adrien’s favorite TV shows. The windows were hung with gauzy white curtains, and opposite them was Adrien’s bed. There were books everywhere: fast-paced action paperbacks, books of piano exercises and more complicated pieces, collections of poetry, art books, sci-fi and fantasy novels, and even a boxed _Harry Potter_ collection in English.

But what dominated his room was the beautifully carved upright piano. Marinette remembered Adrien telling her, back when they were in _lycée_ , that the instrument was his most prized possession. It was one of the few things he’d purchased with his own money, withdrawn from the savings account where he deposited all his earnings from his photo shoots and ad campaigns, instead of his father’s vast fortune.

He was seated at the piano now, hands tightly clutching his knees. His shoulders were hunched, and he didn’t turn to face Marinette as she entered.

“I made you more tea,” she said softly. “I put a little something extra in it. Just in case.”

“ _Merci_ ,” said Adrien flatly. “Put it on the nightstand please.”

Marinette obeyed, then moved further into the room, gingerly inching forward until she was standing at Adrien’s side. “What were you playing earlier?” she asked lightly.

“Rachmaninoff,” Adrien replied. “It’s called ‘Prelude in C-Sharp Minor’.”

Marinette prodded Adrien’s shoulder until he moved over, making room for her on the seat. “It sounded really sad,” she said.

Adrien raised an eyebrow. “You think so?” he asked. “I’ve always thought it sounded angry.”

“Well, yes,” Marinette replied, “it does sound angry. But I feel like it’s the kind of angry that comes from being sad, you know?”

Adrien smiled “Are you actually interpreting the song based on what you’re hearing, or what you’re seeing from me?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Well…no.”

Marinette took the plunge and held his hands, cupping them in her much smaller ones. “Tell me all about it.”

“I would’ve thought the news would have hit the gossip rags by now,” said Adrien bitterly, although he didn’t remove his hands from Marinette’s.

“I had a word with Alya, and she pulled some strings,” said Marinette, grinning. “No articles until you’re ready.”

Adrien’s eyes widened with disbelief, then he shook his head and chuckled. “I wonder if Alya hasn’t secretly taken over the world while we were sleeping.”

“She definitely has,” Marinette agreed. “And anyway, even if she didn’t agree, I’d still have asked you rather than looking it up on some trashy celebrity gossip website. So.” She looked up expectantly. “What happened? Tell me everything.”

Adrien let out a deep sigh. “I was only ten when Maman left,” he began. “She didn’t say goodbye or anything. I was at school, and Nathalie – you remember her, don’t you, Père’s old assistant? – came to pick me up. I remember thinking that was weird, because Maman usually did that.

“So we went home, and I kept asking Nathalie were Maman was, but she wouldn’t answer. She just kept telling me, ‘Your father will explain everything.’ At the time, I thought I was imagining it, but I thought her eyes and nose were red. And it was only later on that I realized she’d probably cried on the way to my school.

“When we got back, I thought maybe Maman was sick, and she’d sent Nathalie in her place to pick me up. But instead of going to her room, we went to Père’s study. I was a little scared, because I’d never been inside there before, but it still hadn’t occurred to me that Maman had left. It was just…unimaginable. I thought maybe she’d be with Père, and they’d tell me that they had to go to the hospital or something.” Adrien shook his head and laughed, a low, sardonic sound that was nothing like his true laughter. It chilled Marinette to the bone. “I remember, I was even wondering if they were about to tell me that I was going to be a big brother.

“Père told me everything. He said Maman left, she’d taken a plane to London, and she wasn’t coming back. He didn’t use euphemisms or anything either. He didn’t say, ‘Your mother still loves you,’ or any of that. There was a time when I wished he’d lied to me, but as I got older I realized telling me the truth was the kindest possible thing Père could have done for me. At least I didn’t nurture any false hope.” Adrien shook his head. “After that, Père pulled me out of formal schooling and hired tutors instead. I didn’t get to go to an actual school until Nathalie convinced Père to let me attend _collège_.”

Marinette tightened her grip on Adrien’s hands, but said nothing. She ached for that little boy, that sweet child who’d loved his mother so much only to come home one day and find her gone.

“Adrien…” She trailed off, not knowing what to say. Instead, she reached up and pulled him into an embrace. She felt him stiffen in surprise, but almost immediately he relaxed, lowering his head to her shoulder. His arms snaked around her waist and pulled her closer.

They stayed like that for what seemed to Marinette an immeasurably long time. She found herself running her fingers through his hair, soothing him like one would a child. It was only when Adrien took a deep, shuddering breath that she realized she could feel a dampness seeping through the cloth of her shirt where his head rested.

He was crying.

“I’m sorry,” Adrien whispered hoarsely, straightening and scrubbing frantically at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to – ”

“Adrien, _stop_ ,” Marinette hissed. She took his hands in hers again, holding them so tightly her knuckles turned white. “It’s okay, really. It is. It’s just me.” She smiled and reached up to gently cup his cheek. “You don’t need to be strong. It’s only me.”

“I would never use the word ‘only’ to describe you, Marinette,” said Adrien softly. He closed his eyes, almost imperceptibly leaning into Marinette’s touch.

“So,” she said, letting her hand fall back into her lap, “what happened when you met up with your mother?”

Adrien looked bereft at the loss of contact, but continued. “We had lunch,” he said, “at Le Grand Paris. It was…nice, I guess. Mostly small talk. She asked me about school.”

“It sounds like she’s trying to make amends,” said Marinette encouragingly.

“Yes, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d know everything she was asking me if she’d bothered to pick up the phone once in a while,” said Adrien bitterly. “But I tried. Chloé said – ”

Marinette wrinkled her nose. “And what sage advice did Chloé have to offer?” she snarked.

To her surprise, Adrien laughed. “You sound just like her,” he said, shaking his head. “The two of you are a lot more alike than you think.”

“ _What_ ?” cried Marinette, outraged. “No way! She’s a spoiled brat who’s never done a hard day’s work in her whole life! I’m _nothing_ like her.”

“Oh, Chloé’s a spoiled brat, that’s true,” said Adrien, smirking, “but you should have heard her when I said we were moving in together. She used the exact same tone of sarcasm.”

Marinette scowled. “I bet she did. She’s such a – ”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Adrien interrupted, looking like he was fighting back a giggle, “she said to me, I should at least hear what Maman had to say, but if I wanted to reconcile, I had to make her work for it.”

Marinette raised her eyebrows. “That’s surprisingly good advice.”

Adrien smirked. “See? Not so different after all.”

“She might be good at giving advice, it doesn’t mean she’s not a bratty snob,” sniffed Marinette, but she decided to let it go. Tonight was about Adrien, after all. “So what happened then?”

“Everything was going well,” Adrien admitted. “And I was thinking, it’s going to take some time, but I was willing to give Maman a chance. But then she said…” He trailed off, his fist clenching in anger. “She asked me to keep it a secret from Père. That she was here, in Paris. She said to me, ‘You know what he can be like.’ Like she was trying to imply that Père’s personality is everything that went wrong in their relationship. That it was his fault that she left.”

Marinette sat stunned at the vehemence in Adrien’s tone. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t raised his voice at all. And yet Marinette felt every ounce of his anger, his frustration, his deep, soul-piercing misery. She was sure that that wasn’t what Madame Agreste had meant at all - perhaps she’d only wanted to keep it a secret from her husband that she was in town, at least until she’d had a chance to collect her thoughts and decide how she was going to talk to him. But Adrien, in his anger and pain, had completely misunderstood.

Of course, he couldn’t be blamed for it. Perhaps Madame Agreste hadn’t chosen her words well, or simply hadn’t taken into account just how badly she’d hurt her son. Privately, Marinette thought Gabriel Agreste’s cold, domineering demeanor would frighten off any woman, but that certainly was no excuse to break up a family.

“Can I be frank?” Marinette asked tentatively, ready to backpedal should Adrien react negatively. But he merely looked at her and nodded. “I think – ” She choked on her words, coughed, swallowed, and tried again. “I think you should give your mother another chance,” she got out in a rush.

She braced herself, ready for Adrien to turn the tide of his terrifyingly calm anger towards her. But instead, he merely raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Well,” Marinette continued, her hands fiddling nervously with the hem of her skirt, “I think she was just nervous. So she really didn’t think about what she was saying. But I don’t think she meant to insult your father. I’m sure she knows how much he means to you.” She paused, grappling for words. “If you want my opinion – ”

“I do, Marinette, I do,” said Adrien. He grasped her hands in his once more, his touch a comforting warmth around Marinette’s cold fingers. “You know I do.”

She smiled up at him, and hesitantly said, “I think you should meet with your mother again. She’s come all this way, and you’ll only be hurting yourself if you refuse to see her. You know you owe it to yourself to try.”

Adrien looked away. There was an interminably long silence before he finally replied, “Okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> _Ma chèrie_ \- French endearmeant meaning ‘my darling’
> 
>  _DCPJ_ \- The _Direction centrale de la Police judiciaire_ , the national judicial police in Paris; readers of The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown will be familiar with them


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the _super_ late chapter! Life caught up with me. :(
> 
> As always, thanks to my beloved beta, [Dawn](http://askdawncloud700.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at [burgischloe](http://burgischloe.tumblr.com). I'm friendly and follow back!
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING:**
> 
> The last part of the fic involves shooting and the use of firearms. I don't actually know if the descriptions are violent enough to warrant a trigger warning, **but I'd rather be safe than sorry**. Proceed with caution if that sort of writing causes you discomfort of any kind.

The issue of Blanche Agreste had to wait a few days while Adrien completed his last photo shoot for the summer. Truthfully, all Adrien wanted to do was hole up at home, play his piano, and try desperately not to think about his mother. But without a valid excuse, his agent wouldn’t let him off the hook, and Adrien hadn’t been willing to tell the man that his estranged mother was in town. Alya had kept her word – there hadn’t been even a whisper of the news that Blanche was in Paris in any magazine or blog. Still, Adrien knew eventually the allure of juicy gossip would outweigh whatever leverage Alya had. He didn’t want to speed up the natural progression of the rumor mill.

Despite Marinette’s advice, Adrien still wasn’t too sure about going to see his mother again. He’d begun to wonder if, perhaps, he’d overreacted; but Blanche still had no right to talk about her ex-husband that way. For all his faults – and they were plenty – Gabriel, at least, had never left Adrien, had never abandoned him.

Suddenly, Adrien knew. There was his answer. He’d talk to his father.

He knew Blanche had asked him not to tell Gabriel that she was in town, but Adrien needed reassurances, and, as Chloé had told him, he didn’t owe his mother anything.

On his way home from his last shoot, Adrien swung by the mansion to visit his father. The scanner at the gate read the sticker on the windshield of his car and opened, allowing Adrien to drive up and park at the foot of the stairs leading up to the front door. Camille was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, wearing an immaculate white suit, her blond hair pulled back in a neat bun.

“ _Bonjour_ , Monsieur Adrien,” she greeted him, leading him into the foyer. “Monsieur Agreste was pleased to get your call.”

“I haven’t seen him since I moved out, I thought it’d be nice for us to meet up,” said Adrien agreeably, passing over the fact that Gabriel hadn’t actually received his call, since he’d made the appointment with Camille.

“Oh, _mais oui_ , your father has missed you!” Camille replied. “Come, come, tea is on the east patio. Monsieur Agreste will be down shortly.”

Adrien wandered out onto the patio, where a table was set underneath a white canvas awning. As he sat down, a maid appeared at his side, seemingly out of nowhere, and poured him a glass of water. That was one thing Adrien had never gotten used to, despite growing up in this mausoleum of a mansion – the discreet, silent ways of the hired help. It was almost creepy, how they managed to move unnoticed through the house.

Lunch was a very fancy spread of finger food and tea, done by Gabriel’s five-star chef. But as Adrien stared moodily at a three-tiered tray of artfully arranged tiny sandwiches, pastries, and _madeleines_ , he realized he much preferred Marinette’s simpler, homier cooking.

“Adrien,” said Gabriel, coming out onto the patio with iPad and planner in hand, “so good to see you. I had the chef prepare your favorites.”

“Yes, _merci_ , Père,” Adrien replied. Gabriel took the seat across from his son and helped himself to a scone, buttering it with all the grace of a king. The maid from earlier swept in with a pot emitting the fragrant odor of steeping tea. She poured out two cups, left the pot in the center of the table, and quickly left.

“So,” Gabriel began, “to what do I owe the pleasure? Everything all right with your apartment?”

“Yes, Père, it’s been great!” said Adrien enthusiastically. “I’m learning a lot from Marinette. And she was so understanding the first time I tried to wash the dishes.”

Could it be? Was that actually a  _smile_ on his father’s famously implacable face? It was just a movement, a tiny twitch of the mouth, but Adrien was positive. His father had smiled. “And just what was it you did that required Mademoiselle Marinette to be so understanding?”

“Used the wrong type of soap in the dishwasher,” Adrien admitted. “The concierge was really upset with the stains on the floor. I think she would’ve decapitated me if Marinette hadn’t intervened.”

Gabriel let out a sharp, bark-like laugh. “This is Madame Michel, correct? My realtor warned me about her. I believe ‘feisty’ was the word used. Don’t tell me she’s taken a shine to your roommate?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Adrien replied. He could hardly believe he was actually conversing with his father, and not the short, stilted conversation over terribly formal meals that were the norm for most of his life. If this was how Gabriel dealt with his son moving out, thought Adrien, he should have left home a long time ago.  

“It seems your roommate is quite a special young lady,” Gabriel remarked, stirring honey into his tea.  “I remember her, you know. From your _collège_ days. She designed that delightful bowler with the pigeon feathers. Positively inspired.”

Adrien grinned, saving up his father’s words to share with Marinette later that night. She’d be over the moon. “She’s gotten even better,” he said. “She told you she goes to ESMOD now, right? She’s at the top of her class. Her designs are amazing.”

Gabriel hummed. “I may have to look into getting her as an intern,” he mused. “I know she works at her parents’ bakery… Would you think she has the time to take on more work?”

“I can’t really say, but I know she’d love an internship,” said Adrien. “She practically worships the ground you walk on.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “I most certainly did not receive that impression when I met her after you suggested her as a roommate.”

“Père, do you honestly have no idea how intimidating you can be?” said Adrien, while inwardly marveling at himself. He was actually _teasing_ his father. “Admiring your work from the pages of a magazine is a little different from actually meeting you in person.”

“Yes, well.” Gabriel shrugged, a careful movement that barely wrinkled the shoulders of his pristine white blazer. “Now, what’s  _really_ the matter?”

“ _Pardonnez-moi_?”

“I don’t think you didn’t come here just to make small talk about your roommate.” Gabriel considered the three-tiered tray and selected a macaron. “Although I do thank you for giving me the idea to hire her as an intern, I’ll need to snap her up before any other fashion house gets their hands on her.”

Adrien bit his lip. Now or never, he thought to himself, then took the plunge. “Maman is back in Paris,” he blurted out.

He’d expected nothing less than the patented Gabriel Agreste sneer, reserved for tardy employees or slapdash products. Maybe a cold, “Indeed,” and a slow steepling of the fingers. Instead, his father dropped the pastry he’d picked onto the plate, and a look of shock crept into his eyes.

Adrien was aghast. He’d never seen his father so – well – _affected_. Today was going to be an afternoon of firsts, it seemed. “Père?” he said cautiously. “Are – are you all right?”

Gabriel slowly blinked, shaking himself slightly, like a man waking from a dream. “I – yes, Adrien, I’m fine,” he said. “I’m a bit surprised, that’s all.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea, seemingly collecting himself. “I never thought Blanche would return to Paris after…” He stopped and looked away.

At that moment, Adrien was suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that his father was just a man. An imposing, domineering, perfectionist of a man, but a man nonetheless, whose wife and the mother of his child had left, so many years ago. “She wants to see me,” he said quietly. “I met with her a few days ago, but she…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say. “Père,” he ventured, “can I ask you something?”

“ _Mais oui_.”

“How…” Adrien stopped, wondering how best to phrase the question, before finally deciding to just be blunt. “What happened to you and Maman?”

Gabriel blinked. Adrien didn’t think he’d ever seen his father look so nonplussed. “I don’t think – ”

“Père, I don’t want to upset you,” Adrien hurriedly interrupted, “but you’ve never told me, and now she’s back, and I just – I’d like to know.”

Gabriel sighed deeply. “Yes, I think you should,” he relented. “ _Je suis désolé_ , Adrien, I should have told you a long time ago. I only wanted to protect you.”

“I understand, Père.”

“The truth is,” Gabriel began, “your mother leaving was my fault. No, it was,” he added, holding up a hand when Adrien opened his mouth to protest. “She said to me, I was too busy, too absorbed in running my company to be a husband and father.” He shrugged. “She was right.”

“That was no reason to leave us,” said Adrien hotly. To leave her own son, he thought, his heart clenching.

“No, it wasn’t,” Gabriel agreed. “She had responsibilities as a mother, and she shirked them, it’s true. She has to own up to that. But she wasn’t entirely to blame. I didn’t – I didn’t take care of her, as I should have.” He paused, a slight, self-deprecating smile curling his lips. “She told me that she’d fallen in love with someone else.”

Adrien’s eyes widened. This was news to him. “Did she tell you who he was?”

“No.”

Gabriel was not crying –  Adrien knew pigs would fly before that happened – but there was a look on his face, something in his eyes, that projected abject misery. In a gesture of solidarity, Adrien leaned over and put his hand on Gabriel’s arm. He looked down in surprise, but accepted the touch. There was a moment where father and son sat there, in total understanding, and Adrien realized that this was the closest he’d felt to his father in a long, long while.

The maid stepped in, oblivious to the moment she was interrupting. “Would the _m’sieurs_ care for more _madeleines_?” she asked, displaying a tray of the pastries.

“No, thank you,” Gabriel replied, slipping once more into his usual cool facade. He leaned back in his seat and picked up his teacup, sipping lightly.

“I’ll have a few please, thank you,” said Adrien. The maid nodded and swooped in to refill the plate, before unobtrusively gliding out in a whisper of starched cotton.

Gabriel waited until the maid was safely out of earshot. Then he set down his teacup and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Son,” he said, “your mother and I will never be together again. We’ve hurt each other too much for that. But you shouldn’t let that stop you from trying to reconnect with her. I know she’s said and done terrible things, but here she is, trying to make amends. There are people who would kill for this chance you’ve been given. She _is_ your mother, after all. You owe it to yourself to try.”

Adrien chuckled. “Marinette said the same thing,”

Gabriel nodded. “Smart girl, that Marinette.”

 

* * *

 

Blanche had been delighted to get Adrien’s call. She arranged for coffee at a small café, not far from Adrien and Marinette’s apartment. Adrien arrived first, requesting a table way in the back so as to avoid prying eyes.

Halfway through his first _café crème_ , his mother arrived. She was, funnily enough, garbed in the kind of clothes Chloé loved – a white dress, a little yellow handbag, and designer sunglasses obscuring her face. “ _Salut, mon petit_ ,” she said, taking the seat opposite Adrien. She took off her sunglasses and smiled at him. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”

“ _Salut_ , Maman,” said Adrien, inwardly congratulating himself on his tone of voice – politely cool, and that was all. His father and Marinette may have been right about him needing to make peace with his mother, but that didn’t mean she had to know it. He waited while she ordered coffee, an uncomfortable silence stretching as the waiter left to fetch Blanche’s drink. By the time the man returned with her order, Adrien had gathered his courage.

“Père and I talked,” he began.

Blanche’s face fell. “Oh, _mon petit_ – ”

“Please don’t,” Adrien interrupted. “I know you asked me to keep this a secret from him, but that really wasn’t fair of you, Maman. You can’t ask that of me.”

Blanche sighed and folded her arms across her chest, giving off the impression of someone literally pulling herself together. “ _Oui_ ,” she said. “You’re right. I’m very sorry, Adrien, that was – as you say – unfair of me. Your father…” She trailed off, looking down at her cup of coffee. “Your father did right by you, while I…didn’t. It was terrible of me to ask you to keep a secret from him.”

Adrien allowed his mother a few moments to collect herself. “Maman,” he continued, “that’s not all Père and I talked about.” He watched her carefully, noting the sudden stiffening of her shoulders, the question in her fearful eyes. “He he told me why you left.”

Blanche closed her eyes, pressing her lips together so hard they turned white. Her shoulders shook ever so slightly, and Adrien saw tears begin to slip from beneath her eyelids, sliding down her pale cheeks.

He steeled himself for her pleading, some spiel on how she felt unloved and unappreciated, but Blanche merely fished a handkerchief out of her purse, lightly dabbed at her face, and opened her eyes to look unflinchingly into her son’s face.

“I won’t ask you to forgive me,” she said, her voice a soft, hoarse whisper. “I won’t even ask you to understand. What I did was the worst thing a mother can ever do to her son.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and braced her elbows on the table. “The truth is, I was only thinking of myself. Your father made me deeply unhappy, but I should never have left you. And I hate it that it’s taken me all this time to decide to come back and try to make amends.”

“Why  _did_ you come back, Maman?” Adrien asked. “It’s been – what, 10 years? – since you left. Why now?”

“Oh, Adrien, I wanted to come back the minute I boarded the plane to London!” Blanche exclaimed. “But I was young, stubborn, and foolish. I was _so_ convinced that your father would appear at the airport and beg me to stay. But he didn’t, and I was angry. I thought it meant that I was right to leave him, and that he didn’t love me anymore. And by the time I had come to my senses, I had already crossed the Channel and I was certain your father had already told you that I was gone. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me after that, and so I just…let the years slip by.”

“If you’d come back,” said Adrien, quietly, “the year after you left, or even the year after that, I wouldn’t have questioned where you’d gone, or why. I would have just been happy that you’d come home.”

“I should have, I know I should have,” Blanche replied. “Even if you wouldn’t have been happy to see me, I should have come back anyway.”

Something horrible suddenly occurred to Adrien. “Maman,” he said slowly, “you don’t – you don’t have _cancer_ or anything, do you?”

“What? No!” Blanche’s eyes widened. “No,  _mon petit_ , I’m not sick at all. Whyever would you think that?”

“Well, I was wondering, why come back after all this time unless you were…” Adrien stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

Blanche suddenly looked stricken. Adrien realized he’d just implied that the only reason his mother would come back and try to reconnect with her estranged son was if she was at death’s door, but he didn’t care how hurt it made her feel. It was a perfectly reasonable assumption.

“I’m fine, _mon petit_ , I really am,” Blanche continued, smiling tremulously. “I just realized it was high time I owned up to my mistakes.”

Right then and there, something in Adrien’s heart gave way. He wasn’t ready to forgive his mother yet, but he’d come to the epiphany that he _could_. Someday, a long time from now, when he felt she’d made amends. She had done him so much wrong, but he’d only be hurting himself if he refused to let her back into his life. She’d come to him, without any inkling that he would forgive her, unwilling to ask even for her son’s understanding, only needing to let him know that she was sorry.

For that, he was willing to try.

“ _Merci_ , Maman,” he said.

“What for?”

“For…” Adrien waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed everything. “For coming home.”

For a moment, Blanche looked floored. Then, a brilliant smile curled her perfectly-lipsticked mouth. She held out both her hands, and Adrien took them.

Adrien luxuriated in the strange but utterly welcome feel of holding his mother’s hand.

“Oh, _mon petit_ ,” said Blanche, her grip on Adrien tightening, “I’m so glad you’re giving me another chance. But – ” She bit her lower lip, looking down for a quick second before once again meeting Adrien’s gaze. “There’s so much more that I have to tell you. Only, do you think there’s somewhere more private we can go?”

“ _Oui_ , Maman, my apartment isn’t far – ”

A scream pierced the air, startling everyone in the café. One of the waitresses ran into the dining room, still shrieking, followed by a man dressed all in black, a motorcycle helmet obscuring his features. The reason for her screaming soon became evident. The man was holding out a gun.

In the time it took to blink, the man opened fire.

The room erupted into chaos. Adrien dove for the floor as the man opened fire, the screams of the café’s other patrons ringing in his ears. All around him he could hear nothing but gunfire and shattering glass – and then, suddenly, silence. His heart hammering in his throat, Adrien dared to lift his head and glance around. The gunman was leaving, walking out of the café as abruptly as he’d entered.

Adrien took careful stock of the assailant, filing away information he could give to the police. Years in the fashion industry had taught him how to look at a person, describe them well, and pick out interesting details. The man was tall but slightly built, and the gun in the holster on his hip had a strange design. Adrien squinted, trying to see what it was. A butterfly, or a moth, carved into the grip.

The man mounted a motorcycle parked outside the café, kicked up the stand, and was off in a spray of gravel.

The other patrons began to stir, having flung themselves to the floor when the shooting started. There were cries of relief as people embraced one another, shouts for someone to call the police. Adrien looked around, expecting to see his mother coming up from the ground, shaken but unharmed –

_No. Please, God, no…_

“ _Maman!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
> _Mais oui_ \- Of course
> 
>  _Madeleine_ \- Small sponge cakes with a distinctive shell-like shape acquired from being baked in pans with shell-shaped depressions
> 
>  _Pardonnez-moi_ \- Excuse me
> 
>  _Je suis désolé_ \- I'm sorry
> 
>  _Café crème_ \- Coffee with milk


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first and foremost, **this chapter involves character death**. If you've read the previous chapter, it should be pretty obvious who, but I thought I'd warn for it anyway.
> 
>  _A BIG THANK YOU_ to everyone who commented and gave kudos last chapter! I'm sorry, I know it was such a big thing to spring on you and leaving it at a cliffhanger at that... :( I acknowledge my evil. Unfortunately, I'm about to give you guys a repeat performance... 
> 
> Thank you especially to those who take the time to comment regarding any mistakes I have in this fic. I love you guys! ♥ Thank you for helping me write a better fic.
> 
> Onward, ho!

For the rest of her life, Marinette would remember that text message. She’d been in a good mood prior to its arrival, having just sent the sketches she’d been working on her customer. An email arrived promptly, informing her that said customer had just deposited her fee to her bank account. All in all, a good day.

And then her phone rang.

She got up off her bed and rummaged through the mess of fabric and paper on her desk, finally unearthing her mobile. The text was from Adrien. Marinette smiled, wondering if he was going to request something for dinner, and thumbed open the message.

All at once, her smile slid off her face.

She grabbed her coat, shoes, and purse, and was out of the apartment in a trice. She ran down the hallway and headed for the fire exit, unwilling to wait for the elevator.

Down in the lobby, Marinette ran into Madame Michel. “Marinette! Is anything the matter?” the old concierge asked worriedly.

Marinette spared a second to weigh her options, then decided to ask Madame Michel to call her a taxi. She was strictly a public transportation kind of girl, but desperate circumstances, and all that. “Adrien’s mother was in an accident,” she explained, before suddenly remembering that no one was supposed to know that Blanche Agreste was in Paris. She quickly dismissed her worries, rationalizing that if there was one person least likely to blab to the press about Gabriel Agreste’s estranged wife, it would be the old concierge.

Madame Michel clapped a hand to her mouth. “That’s horrible!” she declared. “But don’t you worry about a taxi, let me get my grandson to take you. He’s come for a visit today and he’s got a car.” She poked her head into the loge she occupied. “Plagg!” she hollered. “Plagg, get out here!”

A tall, dark-skinned man with close-cropped black hair, a lean build, and a handsome, easygoing smile stepped out of Madame Michel’s home. “ _Oui, Grandmère_?” he asked. “Is something the matter?”

“Plagg, this is one of my tenants, Marinette. Marinette, Plagg here is an inspector with the _Police Nationale_ ,” said Madame Michel to Marinette, a hint of pride creeping into her voice. “Plagg, Marinette’s friend was in an accident. Do you think you could give her a lift to the hospital?”

“Oh, of course, _Grandmère_ , I – ” Plagg’s smile disappeared as his phone chirped. “Hold that thought,” he said, fishing out the mobile from his pocket and putting it to his ear. “Yes, this is Inspector Michel,” he said. He listened to whoever was on the other end, nodding all the while. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and pocketed his phone. “I’m very sorry, Mademoiselle,” he said to Marinette, “but I’ve just been called on a case. There was a shooting. The victim’s been rushed to Hôtel-Dieu.”

Marinette’s heart leapt into her throat. _No. It can’t be._ But she had to ask, just to be sure. “Is the victim Blanche Agreste?”

Plagg’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“Her son is my roommate. That’s where I was headed.”

Plagg nodded. “Right, then, I guess I’ll be giving you that lift after all.” He leaned in and gave his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, _Grandmère_ ,” he said.

She harrumphed. “You take good care of Marinette now, you here?”

“ _Oui_ , _Grandmère_.” Plagg turned to Marinette. “Come on, my car’s parked just over there.”

Marinette followed the inspector to his vehicle, her head spinning as she tried to process this information. All Adrien had told her was that he and his mother had been in an accident, and the ambulance had rushed them to Hôtel-Dieu. She’d assumed a car had hit them, or a nasty fall, but to find out Adrien’s mother had been _shot_ …

The ride to the hospital was a blur. Later on, all Marinette could remember was the sheer panic mounting in her, the sensation of an ice-cold fist gripping the base of her spine. She was shaking by the time they arrived, barely managing to pull herself together just as Plagg parked in front of the Emergency Room’s bay doors.

“Come on, Mademoiselle,” said Plagg, helping Marinette out of the car. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Marinette.” She suddenly realized how hoarse her voice was. She coughed and cleared her throat, then added, “I’m Marinette.”

“My _grandmère_ seems to have taken quite a liking to you, Marinette,” said Plagg, grinning broadly. “I must say, that’s quite a feat.”

Marinette smiled weakly. She suspected Plagg was trying to distract her or calm her down – he was a police officer, after all – but it wasn’t working. Her mind was too occupied with sheer terror for Adrien and his mother.

Still, she was glad for Plagg’s presence. She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to handle herself had she showed up at the ER all alone. Plagg, however, strode up authoritatively to the front desk and showed the nurse on-duty his badge, Marinette trailing in his wake. “Inspector Michel, with the _Police Nationale_ ,” he said briskly. “I’m here about Blanche Agreste.”

The nurse nodded. “She’s just been brought into surgery,” she replied. “An Inspector Fu is sitting with Madame Agreste’s son. They’re in the lobby outside the operating room.”

“Yes, that’s my partner. Can you point us in their direction?”

“That way, m’sieur.”

“I’m obliged, madame,” said Plagg, pocketing his badge. “Come along, Marinette.”

She followed Plagg down the hallway the nurse had pointed to. At the end were a pair of doors that, according to the lit-up sign, led to an operating room. There was a row of couches lined against the wall, one of which was occupied by a tired, defeated-looking Adrien, and a long-haired Chinese man in a green button-up and slacks.

“Adrien!” Marinette cried, rushing forward. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes growing wide with horror at the bloodstains on Adrien’s shirt. “You’re bleeding!” she screeched.

Adrien stood and pulled Marinette into his arms. “I’m okay,” he reassured her, running a hand through her hair. “It’s not mine, it’s Maman’s blood, she…”  He let out a choked sob, tightening his grip on Marinette.

Marinette hugged him back, allowing a few tears to slip free. Some of the fear had begun to ebb. Not enough to calm the still-rapid beating of her heart, but a part of her could breathe easily again, now that she knew for sure that Adrien was okay. “Oh, Adrien,” she whispered. “I was so afraid you were hurt.”

“Excuse me,” said the Chinese man, stepping up to the pair. Adrien and Marinette parted, although he kept an arm around her shoulders. “Forgive me for prying. I’m Inspector Wayzz Fu. My partner and I have been assigned to this case. You are…?”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” said Marinette, extending a hand, which Wayzz courteously shook. “I’m Adrien’s roommate. What on earth happened?”

“I was hoping Monsieur Agreste could tell us,” said Wayzz. “He hasn’t given a statement yet.” He glanced up, and beamed upon seeing Plagg. “Hey Plagg. You come with Mam’selle Dupain-Cheng here?”

Plagg nodded. “Yeah. Turns out they’re my _grandmère_ ’s tenants, so let’s take good care of them, all right?” He grinned at Adrien and Marinette. “Otherwise, she’ll eviscerate us and hide the bodies.”

Wayzz gave a noncommittal hum. “Yes, well. Monsieur Agreste, you and Mam’selle Dupain-Cheng can just have a seat there,” he said, indicating the couch.

“Adrien, please.”

“Adrien, then.” Wayzz nodded. “And Mam’selle Dupain-Cheng?”

“Marinette is fine.”

“ _Oui_. Now then, Adrien, you were at the café with Madame Agreste. Can you tell me what you were doing there?”

Adrien and Marinette exchanged a glance. She nodded and discreetly gestured him to go ahead. This was no time to worry about paparazzi getting wind of Adrien’s mother being back in Paris. “My mother left France some ten years ago,” he said. “She and my father got a divorce, then she moved to London and we lost contact. She was in town to try and reconnect with me.”

To their everlasting credit, neither Wayzz nor Plagg visibly reacted. Wayzz merely nodded, while Plagg whipped out a little pad and began taking notes. “I’m very sorry to have to ask you this,” Wayzz continued, his voice lowering respectfully, “but can you walk me through what happened?”

Adrien took a deep, shuddering breath. Biting her lip, Marinette reached out a hand. Adrien latched on with all the strength of a drowning man desperately clinging to life. His fingers dug into her skin hard enough to leave red marks, but she didn’t budge. She knew he needed her.

“I heard a waitress screaming,” said Adrien slowly, seemingly lost in the memory. “She ran inside, and she was followed by this man holding a gun. He started shooting. I dropped to the ground and covered up. I couldn’t see anything after that, I just heard gunfire. Then when everything got quiet, I looked up and saw the man leaving. There were people calling for the police, but no one seemed to be hurt. Then I turned and saw my mother on the ground…” Adrien’s face crumpled, and his eyes seemed to go glassy with tears. Wayzz held up a hand.

“That’s all right, Adrien, you don’t need to elaborate from there,” he said kindly.

“Where was Madame Agreste staying, Adrien?” asked Plagg.

“At Le Grand Paris.”

“Can you recall if she received any threats? Was there any reason for anyone to want to hurt her?”

Adrien frowned. “We’d only met twice. At the  café, and at Le Grand Paris a week ago,” he said. “I don’t think she mentioned receiving any threats. And I can’t think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt her. Maybe one of her competitors? She’s a famous designer, maybe she pissed a rival off or something.”

Wayzz raised an eyebrow. “Is the fashion world that cutthroat?”

“Competition is fierce,” Adrien replied, shrugging. “It’s hard breaking into the industry. It’s even harder to stay on top.”

Both inspectors looked at each other. “Right,” said Plagg, shutting his notebook. “That’s all we have to ask for now. We’ll be in touch as soon as we know anything.”

“Thank you, Inspectors,” said Adrien, getting to his feet to shake Wayzz’s and Plagg’s hands.

“Will you be needing a ride back, Marinette?” Plagg asked, shooting Marinette what she was beginning to think was a trademark jaunty grin.

She shook her head. “That’s okay,” she said. “Adrien’s here.” He smiled briefly at her and nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve got a car.”

“Okay then. Take care, you two.”

Marinette watched as the two inspectors made their way back down the hallway, discussing the case in muted whispers. She turned back to Adrien, who’d collapsed back on the couch and was staring at the OR doors with a dark, haunted look.

“I’m so sorry, Adrien,” she whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder. Adrien slung an around her and pulled her in, seeking comfort in Marinette’s touch. She threaded her fingers through his hair, soothing him with soft, calming strokes. She honestly had no idea what to say, no idea what comfort she could give. She felt useless and helpless, confined to hugging Adrien and offering useless platitudes when what she wanted to do was stride after the inspectors and help them find his mother’s shooter.  

That was how the nurse found them, curled around each other and tucked into the other’s embrace. The poor boy, she thought to herself. She remembered Blanche Agreste’s well-televised divorce and subsequent flight from France. It was the scandal of the year. She hadn’t even known the woman was back in town, but from what she’d overheard those police officers saying, it seemed she’d come back to rekindle a relationship with her son. And now all this! It was just too much to expect a poor young man to handle.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Agreste,” the nurse said. “The paramedics gave me your mother’s things. I need you to sign for them, please.” She held out a package containing a pair of sunglasses and a tiny yellow purse, as well as a clipboard with a form attached to it. Adrien took the package, handed it off to Marinette, then signed the form. The nurse thanked him, then went on her way.

Marinette removed the plastic wrapping and set Blanche’s things on her lap, idly fingering the butter-soft yellow leather. “Maybe we should check your mother’s phone, or her wallet,” she ventured, once the nurse was out of earshot. “If she’s been receiving threats, there should be something like a note, or a text.”

Adrien laughed softly. “You’ve been watching too many episodes of CSI, Marinette,” he said teasingly. “But yeah, you’re right. We should go through her stuff. There might be something we can pass on to the police.” He took the purse from Marinette and pulled out a wallet and a mobile phone. “Looks like we won’t be getting a look at this,” he said, indicating the phone. “It’s got a passcode.”

“Try birthdays. Hers and yours,” said Marinette, unsnapping Blanche’s wallet. She rifled through the cash (a mix of euros and pounds) and found nothing, then moved to the plastic. A driver’s license (and really, who looked that attractive in a driver’s license photo? That was so unfair), several credit cards, and a few photos.

“Hey, Adrien?” she said, putting away the wallet. “I think I may have something here.” She showed him the photos, the first of which was an old, tattered photo of Adrien as a baby.

A slight smile curled Adrien’s lips. “I forgot how fat I was as a kid,” he said, chuckling.

Marinette laughed and resolved to ask Blanche if she could have a copy of that photo. She turned to the next one, and abruptly her laughter died in her throat.

It was a photograph, a relatively recent one, of another baby.As pretty and blond as young Adrien, with plump pink cheeks and large green eyes. She – or he? – was wearing a white christening gown and a little cap on top of those golden curls. The background was one of those marble-like grayish-blue ones that professional photographers used.

“What on earth…?” Adrien breathed, eyes wide and uncomprehending. He took the photo from Marinette and turned it over. Printed on the lower left corner in a neat hand were the words, _Emma Agreste, six months old._

 

* * *

 

_“There’s so much more that I have to tell you. Only, do you think there’s somewhere more private we can go?”_

His mother’s voice echoed in Adrien’s mind. _There’s so much more that I have to tell you._ He stared at the photo of the baby, a six-month-old child with the same exact blond hair and green eyes that he had, that Blanche Agreste had.

“Maman,” he murmured, clutching the photograph so tightly it crumpled slightly, “what were you going to tell me?”

He was holed up in the apartment, hiding from the press. Not even Alya had been able to keep a tight lid on this juicy story. Apparently a nurse had mentioned their famous patient to a friend, who’d then posted about it on her Twitter account. From there, things had snowballed until all and sundry knew that Blanche Agreste, Paris’s most famous divorcée, was back in town, and had been shot at.

Luckily, the press hadn’t gotten wind of Adrien’s change of address, so no paparazzi were camped outside the apartment building. Nevertheless, Gabriel had sent two bodyguards to discreetly patrol the neighborhood everyday. Madame Michel was not pleased, mostly because the two lunkheads terrified her dog.

The press also hadn’t gotten note of Adrien having a roommate, so Marinette was still free to come and go as she pleased. She came back to the apartment every night with some kind of pastry from her parents, baked especially for Adrien. He jokingly asked if Tom and Sabine were trying to ruin his career by making him gain weight, but he wolfed down every cupcake and tart they sent his way.

As for his mother, Blanche was finally out of surgery, but the doctors still weren’t allowing visitors. “Madame Agreste is still unconscious and in the ICU,” they told him. “But we will contact you as soon as she wakes up.”

Adrien sighed and put away the photo. He had no idea how he was going to go about trying to figure out who the baby was. There was no date, no indication of who she was other than that name written in his mother’s handwriting. _Emma Agreste, six months old._ He had no idea how recent the photo was, or where this child now. One thing was for sure, this baby, whoever she was, she was what his mother had wanted to talk about. Maybe she was even the reason Blanche had come back to Paris.   

The shutting of the door alerted Adrien to Marinette’s arrival. “Adrien!” she called out. “I’m home.”

Adrien wandered out into the living room. “ _Salut,_ Marinette,” he said. He checked his watch. It was barely three-thirty. “You’re home early.”

“Maman and Papa gave me a few days off,” said Marinette, shrugging off her jacket. “They said you needed the company more than they needed the help.”

Adrien smiled. Marinette’s parents were so sweet. He resolved to do something really nice for them once this whole thing blew over. “That’s so considerate of them,” he said, “but I really didn’t need a babysitter.”

“Oh, well, you might not, but I _definitely_ need the time off,” Marinette replied, giggling. She hung up her jacket and flopped down onto the couch. “I’m _starving._ ”

“Have you eaten yet?” Adrien asked, moving to the kitchen. “I cut up some fruit earlier. I can handle a kitchen knife, don’t worry,” he added, at Marinette’s disbelieving stare.

“If you say so,” she said, getting up and following Adrien into the kitchen. “Did the hospital call yet?”

“I phoned the doctors again today, but no change.”

“What about the inspectors?”

“They were able to get into Maman’s phone, but there was nothing there. Inspector Michel said they were following some other leads, but nothing else.”

Marinette frowned. “I still think you should give them your mother’s things,” she said. “They could help you track down who that little girl in the photo is. And maybe this whole thing is connected to who she is.”

“I don’t know, Marinette,” Adrien sighed. He opened the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container filled with pineapple and watermelon slices. “If this was what Maman came back to Paris to talk to me about, I can’t help but feel it should be _me_ who finds this kid, you know? Whoever she is.” He scooped a good-sized portion of the fruit onto a plate and handed it over to Marinette, then went over the sink to get her a glass of water.

“I know this is important to you,” said Marinette, accepting the plate, “but isn’t finding whoever attacked your mother important, too?”

Adrien shook his head. “I can’t explain it, Marinette, but I just feel like I’ve got to try and find this girl first. And if I really can’t, then I’ll go to the police.”

Marinette opened her mouth to retort, but the ringing of Adrien’s phone cut her off. “Hold that thought,” he said, bringing his phone up to his ear. “Hello? Yes, speaking.”

In the movies, when bad news was delivered over the phone, the person receiving it usually dropped something – a glass, usually, so the shattering provided a dramatic backdrop. In real life, however, all Adrien did was put the glass he was holding back down on the counter. He nodded stiffly, said, “Thank you,” then hung up. He had visibly paled, and he suddenly looked a million years older.

“Adrien?” Marinette pushed aside her plate and took a tentative step forward. “What’s wrong?”

“Maman,” he said, his voice blank and toneless, like he hadn’t quite processed whatever it was he’d heard. “She’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation notes:**
> 
>  
> 
>  _Hotel-Dieu_ \- The Hôtel-Dieu is the top casualty centre to deal with emergency cases, being the only emergency centre for the first nine arrondissements
> 
>  _Police Nationale_ \- The main civil law enforcement agency of France


End file.
